


changing tides - titanic au

by elizajostenminyard



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Arranged Marriage, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Period Typical Attitudes, Suicidal Thoughts, Titanic AU, stuart hartford is his own warning in this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-06-20 18:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15540483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajostenminyard/pseuds/elizajostenminyard
Summary: When Nathaniel Hartford boards the RMS Titanic, it is a death sentence. He will be shipped to New York with his brutal father and his soon-to-be wife, Lola. There's no escape.Until he meets third-class artist Andrew Minyard.





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> me @ 2am watching titanic for the 8723th time: A N D R E I L T I T A N I C A U
> 
> But. In all seriousness. I do not regret this and I could probably write 120k about andrew minyard as jack dawson
> 
> This follows the plot of the titanic movie but I've changed some scenes around and added some. Also, the dialogue has obviously been altered because as much as i love jack/rose, they are two totally different characters to andrew/neil so otherwise this story would be wildly ooc
> 
> there are some trigger warnings here so pls be careful - (spoilers) suicidal thoughts, an arranged marriage which could lead to some scenes having a sort of dub-con vibe, references to past abuse and violence
> 
> Enjoyyyyy

“I don't see what all the fuss is about,” says Nathaniel, stepping out of the car and looking up at the RMS Titanic. It is big, and perhaps another could see the beauty in it, but Nathaniel feels caged and helpless. Nothing could be beautiful to him right now.

His uncle, Stuart Hartford, steps out of the car and looks up at the ship. He follows behind Nathaniel, scoffing at his statement.

“Well, it doesn't look any bigger than the Mauritania," Nathaniel says.

He isn’t sure whether he genuinely means it or this is just his sheer need to be difficult expressing itself.

“You can be blasé about some things, Nathaniel, but not about Titanic. It's over 100 feet longer than Mauritania and far more luxurious.” He chuckles a little, marvelling the size of it. He holds out an arm for Lola, who takes it graciously. “Your husband-to-be is very difficult to impress, Lola.”

Lola giggles. The sound is like ice in Narhaniel's veins.

Somehow, ‘husband-to-be’ sounds worse than ‘fiancée’. It is showing his flashes of the dark future when he will be back in New York with his father, husband to Lola and unable to escape. Heavy dread settles in the pit of his stomach as he looks up at the ship - the ship which will take him to his future as the Wesninksi he was born to be.

His mother had left Nathan Wesninski when Nathaniel was nine. It took a year to adjust, but Nathaniel had grown used to his life as a Hartford.

Now he’s nineteen, that comfort is being ripped away.

When his mother had passed, Stuart Hartford had arranged it so that all hard feelings could be forgotten between the Hartford family and Nathan Wesninski. It was obvious that Mary Hartford had been the only thing keeping Nathaniel in England, a blissful four thousand or so miles away from Nathan.

Nathaniel will marry Lola as a symbol of his loyalty to the Wesninski family. He will take over the family business once Nathan dies.

The ‘family business’ isn’t something he wants anything to do with. He’s always been aware of Stuart’s unsavoury career, but he was never a part of it. Nathaniel can only imagine the horrors which Nathan has waiting for him. He vividly remembers the feeling of knives against his skin; a hot iron burning into his shoulder; bruises throbbing where his father had hit him.

“So this is the ship they say is unsinkable,” Lola says, pulling Nathaniel from his dark thoughts only to remind him of more.

“It is unsinkable!” Stewart exclaims, his excitement borderline childish. “God Himself could not sink this ship.”

As they are interrupted by a small, bespectacled man asking to take their baggage to the main terminal, Nathaniel eyes the third-class borders as they are inspected. One of them is covered in dirt and the other is constantly itching his head. The health inspectors brush through their facial hair with strange combs. There is a crying child having his mouth checked, a mother holding it open so a man can examine his teeth.

But his attention is soon averted. The second his foot touches the floor of the Titanic, Nathaniel's heart freezes at the realisation that _this is it_. This is the last time he will go anywhere as Nathaniel Hartford.

To everyone else, this is the ship of dreams.

To him, it is a slave ship, taking him back to America in chains.

Outwardly, he is everything a well-brought-up man should be.

Inside, he is screaming.

* * *

Andrew isn't nervous.

He isn't nervous that his future lies in the balance here, all depending on the cards he has in his hands. Andrew isn't nervous that there are three tickets on the table which read ' _Third Class - White Star Line_ ' mixed in with a few loose coins. He isn't nervous, even though he can sense the tension in Aaron's shoulders and feel Nicky's concerned glances on the side of his face. The Swedish men across the table don’t seem nervous, either - but they soon will be.

Andrew can taste the suspense. It is thick and suffocating, but he refuses to choke with several pairs of hard eyes on him.

If it came to a fight, Andrew could beat these men until those tickets belong to him anyway. But he isn't here to fight anybody. He's here to win them fairly, over a game of poker.

He isn't nervous. Andrew knows those tickets are going to be his any moment.

"Well," he says, eyes sweeping over the others. "Moment of truth."

Andrew keeps his expression blank and voice cold. The men across the table are trying their very hardest to read him, but he is a brick wall when he needs to be. Impenetrable, shielding.

Andrew looks at his cards and stops the corners of his lips from twisting into a smile. "Somebody's life is about to change."

Three and a half minutes later, Aaron and Nicky are following a sprinting Andrew as they weave through the crowd. There are indignant yells from people and distressed neighs from the horses which Andrew cuts in front of, but he doesn’t care. The RMS Titanic is there, huge and sleek and elegant, surrounded by crowds of onlookers desperate to get a glimpse of it.

The whistle slices past their ears. Andrew jumps onto the wooden platform ascending to the boat just as it begins to move away. Nicky yells, “Wait!” and the man turns, eyes widening and flickering to the ever-growing gap between the ship and the platform.

He eyes their clothes and then the tickets in their hands. “Have you been through the inspection queue?”

“Of course,” Andrew lies smoothly. The health inspections on the third-class are rigorous. They don’t seem to bother with the upper-class passengers, as their health has never been anything to debate. They have their own private doctors. They have maids to call those doctors if they so much as sneeze into a napkin.

The man still doesn’t look sure. Aaron jumps in, saying, “We’re all Americans. All three of us.”

With one more lingering look at the dirt streaking over Andrew’s forehead, the man says, “Very well. Get on.”

Just like that, they step onto the Titanic.

They run through swarms of third-class people to get to the deck of the ship. Andrew pushes his way through with his cousin and brother in tow, knocking people out of the way. The lower deck people don’t seem at all bothered by them, not like the upper classes did, but there are a few yells of, “Watch yourself!” from people. None of them listen.

As they clamber up the steps, Andrew hears Nicky shout, “We’re the luckiest sons of bitches in the world, you know that?” over the crowd.

They get to the top. Nicky and Aaron wave goodbye to random crowds enthusiastically, spirits soaring. Andrew doesn’t wave, but he looks. He looks at the masses of people and he looks and the churning water below the ship and he looks at Southampton as it gets further and further away.

‘Luckiest sons of bitches in the world’ doesn’t seem too far away from the truth right now.

* * *

By the next afternoon, they are steaming west from the coast of Ireland, nothing is ahead but vast, deep ocean.

Nathaniel is sat at a table with Stuart on one side and Lola on the other. Two men who are something to do with the building of the ship ramble on, prompted by Stuart and Lola’s occasional questions. Nathaniel does not care about the construction of the ship in the slightest. This ship is transporting him to America, where nothing but pain awaits him. The fact that it is the largest moving object in history doesn’t interest him. Neither does the fact that Mr Andrews, whoever that is, designed the ship from the keel plates up.

But they don’t stop talking. Nathaniel doesn't think they are ever going to stop talking. They seem to enjoy the sound of their own voices.

Nathaniel lights a cigarette, blowing out the match carefully and inhaling - he counts three seconds before exhaling, the strong taste reminding him of his mother. Mary Hartford always smelled like cigarettes. Out of all she was trying to run from, an addiction happened to be the strongest.

Stuart looks at him pointedly. “You know I don't like that, Nathaniel.”

Stubbornly, Nathaniel blows the smoke at Stuart.

Lola places her hand on his arm and takes the cigarette with another. She stubs it out and says silkily, “He knows. Don’t you, Nathaniel?”

At this exchange, Nathaniel notices Allison Reynolds twitch out the corner of his eye. She is what Stuart calls ‘new money’ - her husband had struck gold someplace out West. She has been the main part of the conversation with the others, filling in whenever there is a silence with loud comments or questions. Nathaniel can notice Stuart’s distaste for her radiating off of him.

“We'll both have the lamb, rare, with very little mint sauce,” Lola orders. She turns to Nathaniel, voice going soft when she asks, “You like lamb, right, sweet pea?”

Nathaniel does not like lamb. He just nods jerkily. The nickname ‘sweet pea’ crawls across his skin like an unpleasant insect.

“Are you going to cut his meat for him, Lola?” Allison says. She follows it with a small chuckle, passing it off as a joke, but her eyes have darkened a little where they flicker between Lola and Nathaniel.

She doesn’t allow any replies, charging on with, “So who thought of the name Titanic? Was it you, Bruce?”

The man, Bruce, cracks a small smile. “Well, yes, actually. I wanted to convey sheer size. Size means stability, Iuxury, and above all, strength.”

Nathaniel’s mouth opens before he has had time to think. His words seem harmless enough, but there’s a venomous undertone which Bruce Ismay seems entirely oblivious to.

“Do you know of Dr Freud, Mr Ismay?”

“I - I can’t say I do.”

“Well.” Nathaniel’s lips curl into a condescending sneer. “His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence. Allison Reynolds battles a smile, sipping daintily at her drink and raising her eyebrows. Stuart just looks at him as if he has just disrespected the entire Hartford family.

“Nathaniel,” Lola admonishes. “What has gotten into you?”

“Excuse me,” he says, getting up and turning away from them.

As he turns away, he hears Allison say, “He’s a pistol, Lola. Hope you can handle him.”

He’s too far away to hear Lola’s reply, but he thinks one thing - _no, she can’t._

* * *

Andrew is vaguely aware of Nicky and Aaron near him, discussing the origin of the ship with some Irish stranger, but he eventually loses interest in that conversation. Instead, he sketches the man and his daughter nearby, leaning over the railing and admiring the propellers as they work.

It almost feels like an escape. Life can be whatever he wants it to be on paper. He can draw anything, bring it to life with sure strokes of his charcoal. His sketchbook is filled with people - people he doesn’t know, people he knew for a night, people he’s known all his life. A few pages back is a sketch of a man from Germany, eyes hooded and legs spread. Another man, one he saw in a café with freckles across the bridge of his nose. A blonde worker, sweaty and smiling.

“That's typical,” Aaron sneers as several ugly dogs are walked past them. “First-class dogs come down here to shit.”

Without looking up, Andrew says, “It lets us know where we rank in the scheme of things.”

“Like we could forget,” someone else chips in. He is one of the strangers who Nicky was talking to, a cigarette hanging between his fingers and dirt on his face. “Hey - do you make any money with those drawings?”

“No.”

“You ever considered selling them? I hear upper classes have taken a real interest in drawings nowadays.”

“Art,” Andrew corrects. “Not drawings.”

“Same thing, ain’t it?” The stranger smiles. “Matt Boyd,” he adds, holding out a dirty hand.

Andrew doesn’t shake Boyd’s hand, but he still replies with, “Andrew Minyard.”

Boyd says something else about art which Andrew ignores. Nicky jumps in instead.

He goes back to his drawing. The man is smiling at his child and her face is bright with childish excitement, a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes as she is held safe from the water. Andrew looks at it for a while, smudging a few areas and adding darker splotches where appropriate, feeling something akin to pride begin to rise in his chest.

He likes drawing people, expressing their personalities on a page. However, he's always drawn individual people. It feels strange to look at his sketch pad and realise that on this very paper, he’s captured their connection. A father and daughter bond forever remembered because of a piece of charcoal.

Andrew closes the leather-bound pad and straightens his back. It always hurts to be hunched over for so long. He rolls his neck and makes the mistake of looking up.

He’s never liked the first-class. They’re snobby. They’re entitled. They’re undeserving of money which they did nothing to achieve.

But this man, as upper class as his outward appearance is, doesn’t seem to hold himself like one should. He slumps against the railing like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, looking out at the ocean like he would rather be anywhere else but this ship. Even from a distance, Andrew can see the torment in his expression. His hair is well-groomed, his shoes are well-polished, his suit looks expensive - but somehow, despite looking perfectly put together, this man seems to be falling apart.

The sunset captures him in just the right light. Andrew has the itch to pick up his sketchpad and draw him, but he doesn’t seem to be able to rip his gaze away for long enough.

The man looks unpredictable. For a second, Andrew thinks he’s going to climb up the railing and let himself tumble into the ocean.

Then, a woman marches out and places her hand on his shoulder. In the first few seconds of her presence, the man seems to stand up straighter, almost as if he’s defending himself from something. Andrew doesn’t see why this woman would be any threat to him - she may be taller, but she is skinny, almost as if you could break her with one push.

They argue for a few seconds. It isn’t the type of arguing which would take place down here, in the third-class territory. It is reserved and polite. Andrew would think they were simply having a conversation if it weren’t for the angry set of the man’s shoulders or the pinch of the woman’s brow.

Eventually, the man pushes past her and storms off.

Right before he disappears from sight entirely, he looks back. His eyes flicker over Andrew. It’s barely a second of eye contact, but it’s enough for Andrew’s chest to tighten, a strange feeling rise up in the back of his throat.

He shoves it back down and wills himself to feel nothing, as he has gotten comfortable with, but there’s still something left behind. A lingering interest. A remaining fascination to figure out how somebody so put-together can also look so broken.

* * *

Nathaniel can see his whole life as if he’s already lived it. He can sense his father’s wrath as the Titanic propels them closer and closer to New York with every passing second. He can feel Lola’s long fingers creeping up his shirt. Nathaniel can hear the screams of the men who will have to hurt under his hand.

He feels like he is standing at the edge. Nobody will pull him back. Nobody cares. Nobody even notices.

He is standing up before he realises what he's doing. Lola shoots him a look and asks, “Where are you going, honey?”

He ignores her.

“Nathaniel,” Stuart says, and he decides he _hates_ that name.

Nathaniel wants a new name, a new identity, a new life. He doesn’t want to be a Wesninski or a Hartford. He doesn’t want Lola. He wants a life other than this one.

But that can’t happen. That won’t happen.

“Nathaniel,” he repeats. The name is a knife - each time someone says it, the knife drives deeper.

“I’m getting some air,” Nathaniel lies, voice strained. “I’ll be - back.”

“I’ll come with you, if you like,” Lola offers, putting on the concerned-fiancée act simply for the benefit of the others. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“I just want some air,” he repeats and rushes off before she can follow.

People eye him as he speeds past and gasp as he pushes past them. Women say, “Well, I say, that’s just _rude_ ,” as he doesn’t apologise.

But Nathaniel couldn’t care any less. His eyes are fixed on the end of the boat, where there is a drop to nothingness. A drop down to the water, which he will hit with a smack, his body swallowed by the darkness to never again emerge.

He sprints until he reaches the end. Nathaniel slows, breathing heavily and desperation clawing at his chest. He looks over the edge.

In the daytime, the sea is dark, but there’s a blue tinge to it. Now, the sea is black. He can see the churning surface against the propellers of the ship as it trudges through the water, disrupting the calm surface with big, ugly ripples. It’s a long drop - roughly sixty feet, definitely enough to kill him - but the drop isn’t the frightening part. Once he slices through the air, there’s the expanse of nothing waiting for him at the bottom. He would plunge into dark depths and never again emerge.

Nathaniel thinks of his father. He thinks of Lola. He thinks of screaming men. He thinks of his future and steps up onto the railing.

Another step. This time, he goes slowly, gripping onto the flagpole.

Third step.

He swings his leg over. The other leg. Grabs onto the railing. Leans forward.

If he lets go, there is nothing to stop him from falling.

Nathaniel sucks in several shaky breaths. He can feel tears pricking at the back of his eyes, some even falling. His heart is beating alarmingly fast against his chest and his hands shaking from where they are holding him up.

Nathaniel doesn’t hear anyone approach him. When a voice cuts through the air, his heart almost stops.

“I wouldn't do it, if I were you."

Nathaniel turns his head. A short, third-class man is watching him, a cigarette in one hand and the other holding a sketchpad.

“Stay back,” he says sharply, but his voice lacks the usual danger. Nathaniel sounds choked up. “Don’t - don’t come any closer.”

“Come on,” the man says. His voice is blank. Soothing, almost. “Give me your hand. I’ll pull you back over.”

“No. Stay where you are,” Nathaniel says, but the man doesn’t seem to hear him. He takes several steps forward, one hand outstretched. “I mean it. I’ll let go!”

The man throws a cigarette overboard. He watches it go with bored eyes, and then looks back to Nathaniel. He doesn’t seem overly bothered that there is somebody about to jump into the water. In fact, he seems strangely calm, almost as if he’s unimpressed by the display.

“No, you won’t.”

Despite the anguish on his shoulders, Nathaniel still manages to snap back, “What do you mean, _no_ , _I won't_?” His anger flares up. “Don't presume to tell me what I will and will not do. You don't know me.”

“You would have done it already,” is the steady reply. The sketchbook is put carefully on the floor, so quietly it doesn't even make a noise.

“As if you know. You're distracting me. _Go away_.”

“I can't.”

“Yes, you can,” Nathaniel says.

“I'm involved now.” The man takes off his jacket and throws it aside. “If you let go, I'm going to have to follow you.”

“And what? Save me?” Nathaniel laughs, a cold and sad sound. “You’ll be killed.”

The man takes off his shoes. Nonchalantly, he says, “I'm a good swimmer.”

“The fall alone would kill you.”

“It would hurt. I’m not saying it wouldn’t.”

“Go away,” Nathaniel repeats, almost pleading.

“If I were you, I’d be a lot more concerned about that water being cold.”

Nathaniel snaps, “How cold could it be?”

“Freezing.” The man doesn’t sound like he’s trying to convince anyone. He sounds as if the fact is simple, plain, not even up for debate. “Maybe a few degrees over.”

“I don’t care.”

“You will.” The man pauses, then adds, “When you hit the water, it’s like a thousand knives hitting you all at once. You can’t breathe. You can’t think.”

Nathaniel looks at the water. It stares right back. He splutters, “You’re crazy. Leave me alone.”

The man raises his eyebrows. “Maybe I am crazy. At least I don’t make a habit of hanging off the back of ships.”

Nathaniel laughs again, even more lifeless than before. “Just go.”

“I told you. I’m involved, now.” The man has slowly gotten closer. His hand is an easy distance away to grab. “Just take my hand. Let me pull you over.”

Nathaniel thinks of the icy cold water. He thinks of this stranger, holding out a hand to him, offering to pull him back from the edge when nobody in his family would ever do the same thing.

It takes a second. He sighs brokenly and takes the hand.

The man is surprisingly strong for someone of his height, easily supporting Nathaniel as he clambers over the railing. His steps are shaky and his foot catches on the last railing. When he stumbles, the man is there to stop him from hitting the floor, a solid support which doesn’t seem like it could ever move.

Nathaniel’s feet hit the floor with a thud. He’s back on solid ground. He’s safe.

There are still tears on his cheeks. When he sees Lola and Stuart marching towards him, he wipes them away and stands straighter. Nathaniel can feel the man looking at him, but he won’t risk looking back.

“Nathaniel!”

The name - there it is again. The name which is his death sentence.

“Where did you go, sweet pea?” Lola asks, sickly sweet. “We were worried. We thought -”

She catches sight of Andrew, who is quite obviously not first-class. He looks back at her with heavy eyes, almost as if he’s frustrated with her.

“Did this man attack you?” Stuart asks, stepping in front of Nathaniel like he would shield him.

Funny, considering Stuart is the reason that Nathaniel is even heading to New York in the first place. He’s the one who wants peace with the Wesninskis. He’s the reason Nathaniel was seconds away from jumping.

Just as Lola starts to spew on about how it is ‘unacceptable’ and ‘disgusting’, Nathaniel interrupts.

“He didn’t _attack_ me.”

“Then what happened?”

“I was leaning across the rails,” Nathaniel tells them. It isn’t far from the truth. “I was leaning to look at the propellers.”

“The propellers,” repeats Stuart, exasperated.

“I went too far forward. I slipped. I would have fallen if it weren’t for …” Nathaniel looks at the man, who looks straight back.

“Who are you, boy?” asks Stuart.

“Andrew Minyard,” says the man, eyes flashing at being called ‘boy’, “sir.”

“Was that the way of it, Mr Minyard? You saved Nathaniel from falling?”

Andrew looks at Nathaniel, eyes flashing. He could tell everyone the truth right now, about how Nathaniel was about to jump. Then Nathaniel would be watched obsessively and there would be no possibility to get out of this trap he’s in. He would be delivered to his father with eyes on him at all times.

But Andrew, to Nathaniel’s sickening relief, just nods.

“Well!” Stuart says, looking relieved too. “This boy’s a hero! Good for you, son.”

Andrew looks at Stuart and some of the crew which have followed down. He doesn’t seem to betray any emotion. It’s like he doesn’t care about what happens to him, whether he’s branded as a hero or not. Nathaniel wonders why somebody like that would save him from death.

Nathaniel can’t help but think that it’s a mask. Nobody feels nothing - obviously, not counting his father, who can’t have many emotions whilst he’s cutting into people.

So either Andrew Minyard is pretending, or he’s much more dangerous than he looks.

“Come on,” Lola says, grabbing his hand. “You must be freezing.”

He pulls from her grip. Her skin feels waxy and awful against his.

“Mr Minyard saved my life,” Nathaniel says, shooting a look at Stuart, then at Lola. When they make no effort to move, he adds, “Surely he deserves more than a thank you,” making no effort to hide his ire.

Lola notices his determination and sighs. “Mr Hartford?” 

“A 20 should do it,” Stuart says.

Nathaniel scoffs again.

“Is a 20 the going rate for saving the life of your fiancée?” snaps Nathaniel. “I would have died. Frozen to death in the sea. At least offer a dinner.”

There’s a silence.

Stuart doesn’t seem too pleased, but he sighs and says, “Very well. Will you do us the honour, Mr Minyard? Perhaps you can retell this ... heroic tale whilst we eat.”

Andrew quirks one eyebrow at Nathaniel. He doesn’t even look at Stuart as he says, “Sure.”

“Great,” Lola says, grabbing his hand again. Nathaniel tries not to pull away this time. This whole in-love act requires some form of affection to be shown between them. He has ignored her since they’ve gotten onto the ship.

“Settled, then.” Stuart debates whether to shake his hand, then decides against it, clearly labelling this third-class passenger to be unworthy of that formality.

Lola snakes her arm through his. As they are turning around to leave, she whispers, “This should be funny. I reckon he’s never been to a dinner in his life.”

“Yes,” Nathaniel agrees stiffly. He can still feel Andrew’s eyes on his back. “Just hilarious.”

“I wonder what he’ll wear,” she says gleefully. “Not those rags, surely?”

Nathaniel ignores her in favour of risking a glance back.

Andrew Minyard is still looking at him. There’s a cigarette between his lips, unlit. A few of the crew members are still hanging around him, probably hounding him for answers about his encounter with a first-class boy, but he doesn’t seem to acknowledge them.

Nathaniel hides his shudder and turns back to Lola.

* * *

  
Nathaniel Hartford looks sorely misplaced among the third-class passengers.

People look at him, in awe of his neat hair and clean face and posh suit. People down here see people like Nathaniel from afar, always walking above them. But now, he is stood in the same dirty area as them, merely metres away. It must be like a dream for some of them.

“Mr Minyard,” he says in lieu of a simple hello. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Once again, he looks different when he’s alone. The absence of his peers seems to settle him in a strange way. All the hard lines of his body soften. His eyes don’t look so troubled. Andrew remembers clearly last night when Nathaniel Hartford’s eyes had been bright and desperate, almost wild. He was an animal trapped in a cage, desperate for release. That only release happened to be pitching himself into the cold, cold depths of the Atlantic Ocean.

“Where are your guards?” Andrew says mockingly, looking behind Nathaniel as if to check for company.

“I didn’t bring them.”

“That might not be so wise.” Andrew gestures around. “Third-class is a dangerous area.”

“I doubt it. I actually came here to - to talk to you.”

Andrew doesn’t react outwardly. He puts out the cigarette and places it behind his ear. But inside, his hope ignites. Merely a day ago, he had been marvelling at Nathaniel from the deck below, the desire to sketch him burning at his fingertips.

And now, Nathaniel owes Andrew his life.

Andrew has never been considered lucky, what with his unfortunate childhood and the curse of an eidetic memory, but this could be considered luck in some twisted way. One man’s anguish is another man’s fortune. Nathaniel gets trapped in a life he so clearly doesn’t want to live. Andrew gets gratitude for trapping him in that life.

“Could we take a walk?”

Andrew raises his eyebrows and stands up. “Lead the way.”

Stares follow them from the room. Of course they would. Two separate worlds colliding in such a civil manner is a rarity for these people. They’re probably wondering why Andrew isn’t kissing the ground where Nathaniel Hartford’s feet have stepped.

But he knows the rich. They care about fickle things - money, clothes, surnames.

“So, Andrew Minyard,” says Nathaniel. “May I call you Andrew?”

“Call me whatever you like."

“Okay, then, Andrew. Tell me about yourself.”

Andrew smiles, but it isn’t friendly. It’s an ugly thing, a stray piece of his bitterness which he held onto for a moment like this. “Is that really necessary?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Don’t play stupid. We can play this game if you like, where we discuss my tragic upbringing and the weather, but I reckon that's not why you came to talk to me, is it?”

Nathaniel furrows his eyebrows. He will probably go back and tell all of his dinner companions simply how _awful_ the manners of the third-class are. Then someone else will chip in with how they shouldn’t be allowed on a respectable ship like the Titanic, about how they shouldn’t even sell tickets for below second-class.

But Nathaniel brushes aside Andrew’s bluntness and soldiers on. “Listen, Andrew. I came here to say thank you. For … last night.”

“Refresh my memory.”

“For pulling me back.”

Andrew remembers the hollow desperation in Nathaniel’s eyes. He remembers the solid feeling of Nathaniel’s body beneath his hands as he dragged him to safety.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Andrew says. “If I’d been caught walking away from that side of the ship seconds after a first-class man disappeared into the ocean, who do you think would get the blame?”

It’s only half a lie.

Nathaniel swallows audibly. “I know that. I’m not asking you to feel sorry for me. I’m showing you gratitude. _My_ gratitude, rather than my Uncle’s.”

Andrew just looks at him. They have stopped walking around the boat deck now, frozen in the middle, people filtering around them. People usually walk straight through Andrew. It’s funny how the presence of one first-classer makes people go out of their way to walk a little more to the right.

“I know what you’re thinking. That I don’t have any reason to jump. Poor rich boy,” Nathaniel says, smiling coldly. It’s a smile which makes his blue eyes flash dangerously, and Andrew thinks he’s gotten a glimpse of who is underneath that mask. But the mask is firmly reset in place, the sharp smile softening into something boring and polite. “What issues could I possibly have?”

Huh. Maybe he isn’t as ignorant as he seems.

Nathaniel has got money overflowing in those stupidly deep pockets of his. He’s got maids and servants shining his shoes every night. He’s got his life set out, whereas Andrew will be fighting for work the second they step off this ship.

Nathaniel will waltz into his palace whilst Andrew gets his hands even dirtier to find a place they can afford. So why is he unhappy? What right does he have to be so displeased with his life?

It's frustrating. It’s confusing. Andrew has never liked being caught up on one person. It’s distracting to waste so much time and effort into the way  _one_ mind works.

“You’re right,” Andrew says. “I am thinking that.”

Nathaniel makes a strange noise - half a scoff, half a laugh. “At least you’re honest.”

“Lying is for people who care about the reaction.”

“And you don’t?”

Andrew narrows his eyes. “I don’t care about anything.”

Nathaniel raises his eyebrows, becoming once again unbearable. “Everybody cares for something.”

“Not me.”

“Not anything? Anyone?”

For a fleeting second, Andrew thinks of Aaron’s pleading gaze, Nicky’s warm smile.

“No.”

Nathaniel scoffs. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to, Nathaniel.”

He says the name like it is poison.

Oddly enough, Nathaniel reacts like it is.

Andrew narrows his eyes further. He’s never seen anybody flinch at their own name like it’s a fist before. It’s just a name, just a word, just several letters thrown together. Most rich people take pride in their name. After all, their names are worth something, whereas the name ‘Andrew Minyard’ won’t go down in history. ‘Nathaniel Hartford’ will most likely be written on a golden plaque for everyone to marvel at.

But Andrew clearly remembers the entitled way Nathaniel’s family had said his name - like it was an order. After all, Nathaniel has issues which are enough to make him want to jump overboard. Whatever those issues are, they can’t be light.

Andrew quirks one eyebrow. “What? That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Nathaniel says. “It is. I’m just - not the biggest fan of it.”

“Your mother pick it out?” Andrew asks sarcastically.

“No, actually.” Nathaniel does that smile again. It pulls all life from his eyes. “My father did.”

The silence seems to turn cold. Nathaniel’s posture seems to sag and he lets out a sigh - a long, tired sigh.

“Is your father here?”

“On the ship?” Nathaniel says. “No. He’s waiting for me, though. On the other side.”

“How lovely. A family reunion,” Andrew says coldly. “From one castle to another.”

Nathaniel does the half-laugh again. “Is this a trait of Americans or just you in general?”

“What trait would that be?” Andrew asks, although he has a suspicion of the answer.

“A general lack of manners. Rudeness. Disrespect.”

Andrew takes the half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear. “I think it’s just me.”

Nathaniel looks faintly offended, but he’s probably too numb with shock to process it. Most likely, nobody below him has ever spoken to him like this.

“I won’t blame you. I suppose that is how my life looks to you.”

“What are you saying?” Andrew asks bitterly. “That your life isn’t like that?”

“No,” Nathaniel says. “I’m saying -  I don’t know you, you don’t know me. There’s no point trying to get you to understand.”

Andrew doesn’t reply. He just looks at Nathaniel, at the shadows under his eyes and the exhausted set of his shoulders. Nathaniel watches him right back, eyeing how Andrew lights his cigarette and throws the match overboard. Nathaniel doesn’t smoke cigarettes like these, not cheap, rolled tobacco without a filter. The first-class have good cigarettes which they smoke after a meal or expensive cigars which they smoke whilst drinking equally expensive brandy.

“Please don’t get the wrong idea,” Nathaniel says after a second. “I’m not trying to be rude. I simply -”

“I don’t like that word.”

He blinks. “Which word? ‘Simply’?”

“No. _Please_ ,” Andrew repeats caustically. “Don’t say it.”

“What’s wrong with ‘please’? It’s just -”

“You’re right, _Nathaniel_. It is just a word.”

Nathaniel meets his eyes and exhales. He looks beaten, as if he’s giving up entirely. “I suppose you make a good point.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Andrew says, blowing the smoke at Nathaniel’s face. “You don’t say that word again, I won’t call you that.”

Nathaniel says stubbornly, “Well, what else can you call me?” whilst turning his head away from the smoke. 

“That’s your decision. What do you want me to call you?”

Nathaniel bites at his bottom lip for a second as he considers. He looks at Andrew as if he is being tricked, almost apprehensive about giving over a name. But he must dislike his name quite a bit, because a sigh sweeps over him and he folds.

“Neil,” he says eventually.

Andrew nods a few times. It's a simple name, a far cry from 'Nathaniel'. Maybe that's why he chose it.

 “Any particular reason?”

Nathaniel - Neil, now - shifts uncomfortably. “It was what my mother called me sometimes.”

He doesn’t offer any more than that. Andrew doesn’t ask for any more.

That seems to effectively bring their conversation to an end. As Andrew turns and walks away, Neil calls after him, “Don’t forget about dinner tomorrow night.”

“How could I forget?” Andrew calls back. “It’s the highlight of my third-class life.”

Unless he’s going crazy, he notices Neil’s lips curve up into a small smile. It slips off quickly, but it had still been there - an almost impossible feat when you consider how Neil constantly looks miserable. A smile doesn’t look so bad on him.

Andrew stamps down the flutter of satisfaction he gets from that.

* * *

  
He’s always liked art. Neil has countless pieces hung on the walls in the room, which Lola had scoffed at and said, “Not those finger paintings, Nathaniel,” as if they were something created by a child. But he can’t help but harbour a fascination for them. Finger paintings or not, they speak to his troubled soul, swirls and storms of colour on a canvas.

Andrew’s are not paintings, but through lines of charcoal, he has captured the same feeling which Neil is drawn to. When Neil had found Andrew on the deck, charcoal in his hands and eyes on the horizon, he couldn’t help but ask, “Can I see?”

Neil hadn’t been sure what to expect, but this was not it.

“Andrew, these are - brilliant,” Neil says, flicking to the next page, greeted by a portrait of a smiling man with curly hair. Neil ghosts his fingers over the darker strokes and contours. The attention to detail is simply amazing.

“They didn’t think too much of them in Paris.”

“Paris,” says Neil, almost wistfully. “Well, you certainly get around for a poor -”

He cuts off rapidly when he catches his mistake.

“A person of limited resources,” he corrects.

“No. It’s fine. You can say ‘poor person’.” Andrew looks up to the sky and lets himself bathe in the sunlight. He doesn't seem affected by the insult. If anything, he looks lightly amused. “I won’t be offended.”

Neil laughs lightly. “That’s not - I didn’t mean it like that.”

He turns the page again but startles when he sees a sketch of a very naked man. He snaps the leather bound book shut and feels the tips of his ears burn.

Andrew looks at him curiously. “What?”

“There was - a rather explicit drawing.”

“I wouldn’t say explicit,” Andrew says, entirely unbothered, although Neil feels discomfort crawling on his skin on Andrew’s behalf. “What? Never seen a naked man before?”

“Uh, not - not in this sense.”

Andrew flicks off the ash from his cigarette. “Am I uninvited to dinner now?”

“No. Of course not. Sorry - I was just - startled.”

Andrew is looking at him now. Properly. Neil had never been close enough to determine his eye colour before now, but they are hazel and piercing. “I get it. You’ve got your wife. Naked foreign men aren’t going to be of interest to you.”

“She’s not my wife,” Neil denies automatically. The bit about the naked foreign men doesn’t quite catch up to his mind in time.

“Then what is she?” Andrew asks. He doesn’t sound curious at all, but his eyes are his tell. They flicker between Neil and the still-closed book like he’s looking for an answer.

“Fiancée.”

Andrew is silent for a moment. He takes several long drags of his cigarette before asking, “Do you love her?”

Neil furrows his eyebrows. His immediate answer is ‘no’, but that isn’t the answer which people want to hear. But saying ‘yes’ is a lie which he doesn’t think he can pull off, especially not to Andrew, the one person who he’s entrusted the name _‘Neil’_ to. 

“I don’t think you can ask me that.”

“But do you?”

“Frankly, that’s none of your business.”

“That isn’t an answer, Neil.”

Maybe it’s the way Andrew says Neil’s name - so naturally, like he’s never had another name in his life. Neil still stumbles over it. Saying it feels like a betrayal. But hearing it feels _thrilling_. Like he’s reclaiming a piece of himself which Stuart and his father can’t ever touch.

Eventually, he says, “No.” Before Andrew can say anything, he adds hastily, “But it’s not her. Not specifically. I - I’ve never really liked any of the women.”

Andrew sighs. “You really are confusing. You hate being rich, you hate having women lined up, you hate your famous name - I’m sure most men would kill to have what you have.”

Neil nods. “Yeah.”

“So who do you like?” Andrew’s eyes drift down to the sketchpad, which Neil is still holding. “Did those men do more for you than you’re willing to admit?”

“No,” he scowls. “I don’t like either. Men or women. It feels weird, you know?” Against all instinct, Neil continues. “Whenever the other men are talking about their wives or mistresses, it just baffles me. I don’t understand how someone could look at a lady and think … that.”

“Me neither,” Andrew agrees.

“But you - swing the other way.”

Andrew huffs out a laugh. “That is one way to phrase it. Whereas you just don’t swing at all.”

“I suppose.”

“Why not?”

Neil thinks of his mother hissing in his ear about staying safe, staying unknown. He remembers her hands tugging at his dyed hair like she wanted to tear it from his scalp.

“I’m not sure,” he lies.

The truth about his family is out of bounds. It’s even risky giving Andrew small truths like he is now. Those small truths could act as pinpricks, little holes which can be ripped open further later until there’s a gaping hole in Neil’s protection and his secret is there for the world to know.

The only people who know about his relation to Nathan Wesninski are Lola and Stuart. He intends to keep it that way.

“Fine,” Andrew says. He takes another drag and around a mouthful of smoke, says, “Ask me something.”

Neil blinks. “What?”

“You just told me all of that, free of charge. I won’t be in your debt. Ask me something.”

Neil searches. Questions file through his brain, pointless questions, until he settles on one with a little substance. “What are those things on your arms?”

“Armbands.”

“What for?”

Andrew slips one hand in and when it comes back out, there’s something silver and pointy in his hands. A knife. Neil blinks and it’s gone, but the glimpse is enough to clarify one thing. Andrew’s armbands are sheaths for knives.

“Oh,” is all Neil says.

The silence drifts on for a few more seconds. Neil opens the book again, this time expecting the image, so he isn’t quite so shocked. Instead, he admires the sure strokes of black against the paper, the lines which have captured a heavy-lidded, completely nude man leaning against a wall. The next picture is the same man, this time with clothes on. He’s smiling down at a drink, his long hair pulled up into a style which appears rather feminine. Neil can almost hear Stuart scowling and saying that _respectable men cut their hair._

“You seem to like this man. You drew him several times,” Neil comments absently, although he is aware that Andrew’s attention is no longer on the sky. It’s on him, on his reactions. “Were you involved with him?”

Andrew takes a few seconds to reply. His words are careful. “In a way. But I had to leave.”

“Would you have stayed with him if you could have?”

Another pause. Andrew nods cautiously. “Most likely.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Roland.”

Neil turns the page. It’s a drawing of hands. One of them is resting on a knee and the other is holding a cigarette, much like Andrew is now.

“Do these belong to Roland as well?”

“Yes.” Andrew frowns a bit, like remembering Roland is difficult. It must be. Leaving someone you love can’t be overly pleasant. “He had nice hands.”

There are a few more of Paris, and then there are some of the same man from the beginning. He has darker skin than the boy next to him, who is Andrew, except he couldn’t have drawn himself with such perfection.

“That’s Nicky. And Aaron.” Andrew points at the copy of himself and says, “Twin brother.”

“You have a brother?”

“And a cousin.”

“Are they on the ship with you?”

“Unfortunately so,” Andrew intones. “Nicky wants to meet you.”

Neil blinks and looks at the darker skinned man, who Andrew has drawn smiling. “Why?”

“His cousin being invited to a first-class evening meal is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to him.”

Neil feels a pang of pity for Andrew’s cousin. That doesn’t sound like an overly thrilling lifestyle.

“Speaking of the evening meal,” Neil says, “what are you going to wear?”

Andrew looks down at his clothes. They aren’t as dirty as some of the third-class passenger's clothes are, but they wouldn’t pass at dinner. Not with Stuart.

“Why not flaunt my ‘limited resources’?” Andrew says sarcastically. “I’m a third-class citizen, Neil. I don’t own much else.”

Neil thinks back to Lola’s gleeful declaration of _he’s probably never been to a dinner party in his life!_ and a dart of protectiveness shoots through him. Andrew may be third-class, but he won’t let Stuart and Lola and the other rich men make him look like he’s a fool. Andrew isn’t stupid. He’s got a sharp tongue, a talent which would be celebrated if not for his background.

“That’s fine. I’ll sort you out. We’re roughly the same size,” Neil says, but his eyes catch the swell of Andrew’s bicep and he looks at his own skinny arms doubtfully. “Or - maybe I can find someone -”

“Don’t trouble yourself.”

“No. Stuart isn’t … kind. He looks at the lower-classes like they’re vermin. it will be awful. He will be awful.”

“Since when do you care about the public opinion of me?”

_Since you pulled me back from the edge_ , Neil thinks. He keeps quiet, but he feels like Andrew hears him regardless.

* * *

  
Andrew doesn’t know who Mrs Reynolds is, but he doesn’t like her. She makes Neil into this straight-spined stranger, who overuses the words ‘yes’ and ‘thank you’. But Andrew notices how he avoids the use of ‘please’ and struggles to contain the spiral of warmth in his chest.

He doesn’t understand why Neil is still here. He’d been nothing but unpleasant, yet for some reason, Neil stuck around. He’d outed himself with the drawings of Roland, but Neil hadn’t retreated in disgust. Instead, he’d replied with an equally damning confession.

Andrew wonders if he’s this desperate to escape ‘Nathaniel’ that he’ll jump at any rude stranger who offers to call him something else.

“A suit?” Mrs Reynolds asks. Andrew isn’t sure whether she’s painted on her eyebrows obnoxiously on purpose. Maybe that is the fashion. First-class women certainly are baffling creatures. “Well, you have plenty, surely?”

“Yes, Mrs Reynolds, I do. But it’s actually for my friend here.” Neil gestures to Andrew, who had been comfortable in the shadows until now. The woman looks at him blankly for a few moments, until Neil prompts, “You remember the man who saved me from falling?”

It seems to click. Her smile curls even higher, flashing teeth from behind red lips. “Oh! Of course. The man joining you for dinner tonight. How could I forget?”

“Will you be joining us, Mrs Reynolds?”

“Please,” she says, and Neil seems to flinch on Andrew’s behalf. “Call me Allison. And I believe I will be. You two gentleman can walk me in.”

“That sounds brilliant, Allison,” Neil says, voice bright and false. Andrew doesn’t like it. He prefers the awkward, fumbling man who says things without thinking and then panics about it. He likes the man who isn’t hiding behind his first-class mask. He likes the raw emotion in Neil’s eyes rather than the misty, vacant look he gets when around his own kind.

Allison Reynolds leads them through the main room, which happens to be bigger than any room Andrew has ever set foot in, and they reach a closet which looks as if it could hold the ship itself. Neil doesn’t seem fazed, but Andrew doesn’t understand how somebody could need this much space. Back in the third-class territory, he shares a room with Nicky, Aaron and three other foreign men. There are bunk beds all stacked on top of each other, like cages for animals. And here … Allison’s clothes have more space than they do.

“I think you’re in luck, boys,” she says. She rifles around with something before presenting a long, suit-shaped bag. Andrew can’t imagine ever needing to put his clothes in individual bags, no matter the amount of money he has. “My brother-in-law is a similar build to your friend here. Although, we may have to hem the bottoms of the pants. He was a little taller.”

Andrew ignores that comment and watches how Neil takes the suit from her gently like he’s handling something valuable. Well, he is, but if he dropped the suit, what would happen besides a little creasing?

But Andrew gets the feeling that creased suits are a big issue for these people.

“Are you okay changing out here?” Neil asks.

He seems to find his answer in the tight set of Andrew’s shoulders. It’s strange, considering Andrew’s own cousin and brother find him bewildering, and yet this man who he’s known for less than two whole days can read him like that.

It should be unnerving. It should feel wrong. He’s spent so long trampling his emotions down to where they are a faint annoyance, sometimes an inconvenience. But here is Neil Hartford, a jumble of issues and lies and truths, making him feel.

Andrew hates it.

Once he’s been led to another little room (how many rooms does somebody need to live their life?) Andrew pulls on the suit whilst Neil waits outside the door. Once he’s dressed, he feels safer, the tickle of air at his exposed skin making his chest constrict and his mind to chant _unsafe unsafe unsafe._

Allison was right - the bottoms of the pants are too long. The suit jacket fits a little better, although it’s not perfect. When Allison and Neil catch sight of him, there’s a shared moment of shock.

“It fits?” Neil asks. His eyes flicker around as if he isn’t sure where to look.

“We will have to hem the bottoms,” Allison says. “And do something about …” She gestures to his hair and face. “But you’ll do just fine. You might even come out of the snake pit alive.”

It’s a joke which she and Neil laugh about together, although Neil’s laugh is too polite and fake. There’s a dark understanding in his eyes which comes from _living_ in the snake pit.

Tonight, Andrew will visit and come out relatively unharmed. But Neil will stay there, unhappy for the rest of his life.

In a burst of thought, Andrew imagines taking Neil with him. Once Aaron and Nicky are safe back in New York, they will have the world to travel together. Maybe Neil can see Paris. Andrew can sketch him instead of random foreign men far too willing to take off their clothes. It may be a far cry from his usual luxury, but at least he’ll be smiling. At least he’ll be happy. Andrew has only caught odd glimpses of a smile on Neil’s face, and he thinks that genuinely happy would be a good look on him.

He shakes that thought away. Neil won’t want to come with him. Neil may be unhappy in first-class, but at least he won’t be struggling for money, working until he is bruised. He’ll be downright miserable with Andrew.

At some point, Allison disappears to find something else, and Neil says, “I’m sorry I made Stuart ask you to dinner. You were probably fine with a 20.”

Andrew wouldn’t have minded a 20, now he thinks about it. But then he never would have seen Neil again - he would still be Nathaniel Hartford, the first-class man who Andrew could only catch sight of in his dreams.

Now he is Neil. Now Andrew is keeping several heavy secrets belonging to Neil close to his chest. Now there is something real between them, something which feels unfamiliar. Something raw and exhilarating. Something like trust.

“Yes, Neil,” Andrew lies. “I would have been fine with a 20.”


	2. two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is where it sort of deviates from the actual script a bit bc jack and rose didn't have any dark ass secrets they needed to keep from each other, whereas neil and andrew do
> 
> also im trying not to rush things between them? bc they are a slow burn TM in the actual books so im trying to recreate that in a titanic au but idk if it's working
> 
> mentions of past abuse in this chapter!! be safe

First-class is exactly how Andrew had expected it to be. Gentle music floats through the air as people dressed in pristine suits walk past unhurriedly like they’ve got all the time in the world. Andrew makes a note of how all the men stand with one arm behind their back. He watches a man press his lips to a woman’s hand and how she giggles, saying, “Oh, Mr Thomas, you’re such a gentleman!”

 

He waits for Neil and his fiancée at the bottom of the staircase. It is far too clean, every surface so clear that Andrew can see his reflection perfectly. It is a big difference from the unsanitary floors down in third-class, where it is an unwise decision to walk even without shoes.

It doesn’t take long for Neil to appear with Lola on his arm. When Neil catches sight of him, a timid smile graces his face, his eyes igniting with an excitement that Andrew has never seen on him before.

“Mr Minyard,” Neil says. It’s a formality which is necessary, although Andrew feels a stab of resentment towards Neil’s family who would frown upon him for being on a first name basis with someone from third-class. They aren’t aware that Neil had spent the last day and a half on this ship in Andrew’s company, admiring his drawings and discussing his travels and sharing truths.

“Minyard?” Lola asks, her lipstick-smeared smile fading, replaced with a blank look of surprise. “Well, I say, you clean up well. You could almost pass as a true gentleman.”

“Almost,” Andrew agrees, a caustic undercurrent to his voice which she doesn’t recognise.

“Shall we go in?”

“Once Mrs Reynolds arrives, of course we can,” Neil says, gesturing to the staircase.

“Allison Reynolds? You’re waiting for her?”

“I did promise,” Neil says patiently.

“In any other circumstance, that would be perfectly okay,” Lola says, although her smile says otherwise. “But Mr Hartford is waiting for us. Surely, we shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

“She shouldn’t be long,” Neil tries.

Lola doesn’t seem to be accustomed to not getting her own way. “That’s perfectly alright, Nathaniel. I’ll just explain to your Uncle why you’re late to the table.” With a false sweetness that makes Andrew’s ears ache, she adds, “Would you like me to save you and Mrs Reynolds seats next to each other?”

Andrew can see the moment Neil crumbles. There’s a hatred sparking in his eyes and a tension in his body, but it all melts away when he sees that fighting is futile. Andrew doesn’t like how Lola can wear Neil down like that.

“Yes, you’re right,” Neil says. He looks to Andrew apologetically. “Would you mind waiting for Mrs Reynolds, Andr - Mr Minyard?”

Andrew nods his assent and watches as Neil turns away, Lola pressed tight against his arm. Andrew's never liked women, but that particular women is more insufferable than the others.

Allison isn’t late, but she’s one of the last to arrive at the top of the staircase. She spots Andrew and makes her way towards him triumphantly, admiring his slicked-back hair and suit.

“You look dashing,” she says. “Where’s Nathaniel?”

_Neil_ , he mentally corrects her. “He and Lola already went.”

Allison adjusts her dress, which is unnecessarily extravagant. She keeps looking at his arm like he’s got something to offer her, and Andrew remembers how every woman in here seems attached to a suit-clad man. He holds out his arm and she takes it with a satisfied grin. The height difference makes it slightly awkward, but Allison pays it no mind. She’s tall enough without any help. The heels on her feet not only add several inches to her height but they make a ‘click’ and a ‘clack’ sound on the tiled floor with every step.

“Lola is a charming lady,” Allison comments. “Very pretty. Nathaniel is lucky to have her.”

She doesn’t sound like she believes herself.

“There isn’t much to it, Mr Minyard,” Allison adds, filling the silence. “These people love money. Pretend like you own a gold mine and you’re in the club.”

“‘These people’,” Andrew repeats. “You don’t associate yourself with them?”

“They don’t associate me with them. I’m new money,” she says, as if that explains everything, when in reality Andrew isn’t quite sure what the phrase ‘new money’ even means. “And I’m a lone woman on this ship. They don’t like that, see. Every woman has to have a man to reign her in. I left my husband behind to do whatever he likes.”

“Admirable.”

“What about you? You got a lady down in third-class?”

Andrew scoffs. “No.”

“Not even a handsome man like you?”

“Unfortunately not,” he says sarcastically.

They reach the dining room. Andrew catches sight of Neil, chatting pleasantly to an old woman with white hair. When he catches sight of Andrew, he seems to settle into himself, a smile twisting on his lips. He beckons him over.

“Good luck,” Allison says, briefly serious, before she springs back into her usual self and greets another tall woman with a kiss on the cheek.

Andrew makes his way over to Neil. The woman he’d been talking to looks Andrew up and down. There is a feather stuck out the top of her hair. It looks ridiculous, but Neil doesn’t seem to acknowledge it. He introduces them, and when she hears his surname, she furrows her overly large eyebrows and says, “Minyard? Are you of the Boston Minyard family?”

Andrew decides that it isn’t the best setting to reveal that he’s been passed around families until he was fourteen, so he just shakes his head and says, “No, ma’am. The Columbia Minyards, actually.”

Although it’s obvious she’s never heard of them before, the woman nods graciously. “Of course. My mistake.”

But nobody frowns upon him. Nobody looks at his clothes like he’s diseased. Nobody pushes past him or holds their wealth over his head, because tonight, he is one of them. It feels strangely liberating, but it’s exhausting. At least when he’s himself, he doesn’t have to worry about keeping up a front.

A few more people come and go, quick greetings and handshakes. A few of the women who are plainly interested in Neil come up and kiss him on the cheek, lips gliding over his skin in a way which is far too sultry for it to be anything but suggestive. Neil remains blissfully ignorant and the disappointed women stalk back to their husbands. Someone as young and wealthy as Neil is going to be of romantic interest, but he doesn’t seem to realise that.

When they sit at the table - which seats at least twelve people, most of which are already sat down - Neil takes two empty seats and gestures for Andrew to sit in the other. The only seat for Lola will be across the table, too far away to run her hands over Neil’s shoulders and arms like she seems to enjoy doing. She’s too far away to interact with him. Andrew doesn’t miss how Neil seems to look entirely relaxed as she is forced to take a seat across the table.

“Sorry, darling,” he says. He doesn’t look or sound sorry.

“It’s okay, sweet pea,” she says. “Mr Davis is the perfect company.”

Mr Davis says, “If you wish, Mr Hartford, I can always move -”

Cold dread spikes in Andrew’s stomach.

“No, no. Don’t be ridiculous,” Neil refuses, his tone certain. “No need to cause a hassle.”

Andrew gets the feeling that Neil doesn’t want to move away from him, either.

* * *

No matter the occasion, Neil knows he can always rely on Stuart to make things uncomfortable.

Andrew has been thriving all evening. Women and men alike seemed entirely smitten by his smart comments and clever one-liners. He melts into the role perfectly even though this is his first interaction with the first-class world. He never falters. Neil finds himself watching Andrew far too much, something warm flooding his chest whenever Andrew catches his eye.

“So, Mr Minyard,” Stuart says. “Tell us of the accommodations in steerage. I hear they're quite good on this ship.”

Neil bites at the inside of his lip to keep himself from snapping. Frustration simmers in his stomach. Andrew’s remarks have all been smooth and sensible this evening, and Stuart probably isn’t happy that a third-classer is more centre stage than him. He’s trying to rile him up. He’s trying to ruin things.

“The best I've ever seen, sir. Hardly any rats,” Andrew replies effortlessly. People around him fall into polite laughter, marvelling at his clever humour.

Andrew looks to Neil, hazel eyes flickering between Neil’s eyes and his grin.

“Mr Minyard is joining us from the third class, you see,” Stuart elaborates. Some of the men seem startled. Others nod as if they’d been expecting that all along. “He was of some assistance to Nathaniel several nights ago.”

Neil recalls the anguish from that night, sharp shards of glass in the fragile tissue of his heart. He remembers clearly the way Andrew had calmly pulled him back from the edge, a solid, strong presence which felt like it could hold Neil and all of his issues up.

“It turns out that Mr Minyard is quite the fine artist,” Neil says. “He was kind enough to show me some of his work.”

Stuart and Lola share a glance. It is condescending, coupled with a few sighs as if Neil is a child who has no idea what he is talking about. He grips onto his cutlery a little tighter to stop himself from hurling the knife straight at Stuart.

Then Neil blinks, startled at his own violent thoughts. It’s scarily close to his father.

“Nathaniel and I have differing opinions on ‘fine art’,” Lola says, with an awful giggle following her words. “Obviously, not to put down your work, Mr Minyard. I’m sure it’s brilliant.”

“So where exactly do you live, Mr Minyard?” Stuart cuts in.

Andrew notices the challenge and sits up a little straighter. “Well, right now, my address in the RMS Titanic. From then on, I'm on God's good humour.”

“And how is it you have means to travel?”

“I work my way from place to place. But I won the tickets onto the Titanic at a lucky hand at poker.”

“Tickets?” asks someone else, emphasise on the ‘s’.

“I boarded the ship with my brother and cousin. They’re my travelling companions at the moment.”

“How touching,” Lola says, lip curling into a sneer.

“So you find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?” Stuart asks haughtily.

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Your brother and cousin - are they down in third-class with you?”

“Yes, sir, they are.”

“Sounds rather cramped.”

“Well, I like the small space, you see.” Andrew looks around the to the table of men who have probably never slept a day in their life in a bed which isn’t excessively large. “It’s all I need. I find that having too much is pointless. I like to live every day and not know what’s coming. Not knowing who I’m going to meet.”

Andrew’s eyes sweep over Neil.

“I want to see the world. I intend to make my life count.”

There’s a lively spark in Andrew’s eyes. For a man who claims to care about nothing, Neil recognises a deep buried passion.

“Bravo,” one of the men says.

Allison Reynolds raises her glass with a smile.

“To making it count,” Neil says, raising his glass as well. He sips at his champagne and looks at Andrew over the top of his glass.

Neil feels something stir in his stomach. He feels an involuntary smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. A real smile. Not one of his fake smiles, the one he uses to be polite. This one is all teeth and dimples and he doesn’t think he could force it down even if he wanted to.

He figures it must be the alcohol which is making him feel giddy like this.

* * *

_Make it count. Meet me at the clock._

Andrew’s handwriting isn’t neat, but there’s a swirling quality to it which only an artist could achieve. Neil runs his finger over the dent in the paper from the pen. The paper is from his sketchpad.

He puts the paper into his pocket and stands from the table. Andrew had only left a few minutes ago, but already the atmosphere of the table becomes cold. Men disappear off into the room to smoke and drink brandy, so Neil gets up as if to follow them. But instead, he slips past them and out of the door.

True to his word, Andrew is waiting at the clock. When he sees Neil, he turns and raises his eyebrows.

“Have fun?”

Neil tries not to smile. “‘Fun’ isn’t the right word, I don’t think.”

“Well.” Andrew wraps his fingers around Neil’s wrist. Surely, he can feel Neil’s pulse, how it is beating quickly. “Want me to show you what a real party looks like?”

* * *

Drums are pounding, men are whooping, women are laughing. Lively music blares around them and Andrew grabs hold of Neil’s wrist to guide him through the crowd, to where he can see Aaron and Nicky talking to a big-breasted woman with a child on her hip.

Andrew is accustomed to the outrageous nature of third-class parties, but Neil is looking around, absolutely amazed at the lack of formality. He looks slightly disoriented as several people collide into him, but he soon learns to dodge.

“Stuart would have a heart attack.”

Andrew replies, “Is that such a shame?”

Neil’s laugh is loud and unabashed. Warm pride trickles through him, a heat which he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Nicky and Aaron don’t seem to notice them. Andrew takes off his suit jacket and runs a hand over his hair, messing it up to an appropriate amount so he’s recognisable. Nicky still does a double take when he sees Andrew, mouth falling open in a perfect ‘o’. Aaron just looks at him like he’s never met him before.

“Wow, Andrew, you -” But he cuts off when he catches sight of Neil, who is looking around, slightly confused yet an excited smile on his face. “Oh. Wow. That’s - that’s Nathaniel Hartford.”

“He goes by Neil,” Andrew says. Nicky looks at his dark expression and nods frantically, not even questioning it.

“Neil, hi,” Nicky says, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you! I’m Nicky. Andrew’s cousin. I’m sure he’s told you all about me!”

Although Nicky has only been mentioned once or twice in their conversation, Neil just nods. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

Nicky looks seconds from passing out from elation.

“This is Aaron,” he adds. “Andrew’s brother. _Twin_ brother.”

“I’ve been told about that, too.” Neil nods to Aaron. “Nice to meet you.”

Aaron ignores him.

“Charming, isn’t he?” Nicky says apologetically.

There’s a crash in the corner. Nobody but Neil pays it any mind, who looks shocked and half-amused and horribly uncertain of how to react.

“Is he - okay?” he asks, looking to the man who had fallen with concern written into his eyes.

Almost immediately after the man finds his feet, he reaches for more of his drink, half of it missing his mouth and sloshing down over his clothes. Not that it matters particularly. His clothes are already dirty.

“I think he’s fine,” Andrew dismisses.

A startled little laugh bubbles up in Neil’s throat.

“Hey, Neil, do you dance?” Nicky asks.

“Uh - not - not this type of dancing.”

“There is no type of dancing,” Nicky says, beaming. “You just jump around a bit and cheer.”

Neil swallows and looks at Andrew. “Um. No, thank you. I’ll stay here.”

“You’ll change your mind once you see how much fun we’re having.” With that, Nicky flashes a smile and drags a girl out into the crowd. She laughs easily, her hair swishing as Nicky twirls her around.

“Is that Nicky’s wife?”

Andrew almost looks amused. “No.”

“Does he know her?”

“Probably,” Andrew says carelessly. “Nicky likes people.”

Neil hums and settles into his seat, watching the crowd, still mildly shocked by the raucous nature of the party.

The night goes far too quickly. At some point, Neil loses the suit jacket and his hair starts to fall apart, wisp by wisp. He drinks until there’s a smile on his lips. He claps along to the fast beat, watching Nicky dance without a care in the world, his eyes glittering.

Whilst Neil isn’t looking back, Andrew looks at him properly. His eyes stroke over the faint splattering of freckles on Neil’s cheeks, too faint to notice from a distance away. He looks at the flutter of his eyelashes. He looks at the way he smiles when he thinks nobody is looking.

Andrew lights a cigarette and thinks _fuck_.

Neil lets himself be dragged up by Nicky once he’s wobbly enough. Neil goes to protest something about not knowing the steps, but there aren’t any steps to know. Some random girl with dark hair latches onto him and her hand rests lightly on his shoulder. Andrew doesn’t miss how Neil flinches slightly. But as moves his feet in line with hers, he is laughing. Neil looks free. He looks like the man he should be, rather than a stuck-up aristocrat with too many manners.

Andrew can’t seem to tear his eyes off of Neil. There’s something magnetic about his happiness.

Time seems to fly past. Before he knows it, nearly two hours have passed. Andrew has nearly smoked through a whole packet of cigarettes whilst he’s been busy watching Neil. Smoking helps quiet the jagged edge of his emotions. Most days, he finds it difficult to feel, but it’s a pointless task anyway. Feeling never gets you anywhere.

Nicky feels enough for the three of them. Andrew is tough and unyielding, the one who vouched to protect his brother and cousin. He protects them - he doesn’t feel for them. When he’d told Neil ‘I don’t care about anything’, he hadn’t been lying.

But here he is, struggling to keep a rein on his emotions. They seem to burst through the shield and adopt residence within his chest, impossible to tear away without damaging himself.

Neil seems to be an exception to everything. Andrew trusts him. Andrew likes him enough to deal with him. The feelings seem to be mutual.

Neil comes stumbling back, breathless and wild, falling into the seat beside Andrew with a sigh. He is still smiling, still drunk and sweaty. But it’s a good look on him. Andrew doesn’t ever think he’s seen Neil look this attractive. He’s startled by the hot, powerful surge of want he gets in his stomach at the sight of Neil’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

Doesn’t matter, he reminds himself. Neil doesn’t swing. Even if he did, you’ve got two more days on this boat, then you’ll never see him again.

Neil pinches his cigarette from between his fingers. Andrew is too busy watching the way he exhales around a grin to notice the two first-classers who are lingering in the doorway, eyes on Neil as he interacts with unsavoury characters, drinking from dirty cups and dancing to wild music.

They leave after a minute, but there’s no undoing what they saw: Nathaniel Hartford disgracing his family name.

* * *

Breakfast the next morning has an unfriendly energy. Neil gently sips at his coffee, risking a glance at Lola from across the table. Her face is always pulled into an unpleasant expression, but this morning she looks a different flavour of annoyed.

“I had hoped you would have come to me last night,” Lola says eventually.

Neil takes another sip of his coffee to buy a few seconds. Lola’s eyes drill into him from across the table.

“I was tired.”

She chuckles softly, dangerously. “Yes, your exertions below deck must have been exhausting.”

Neil’s reply gets lost with the surprise. So Lola and Stuart must have had their servants follow Neil after he left. He’s already owed to her, trapped within a poisonous life as he is delivered to his father, and yet his activities on the ship are her concern as well.

“It’s touching,” Neil says venomously, “that you are so concerned of my whereabouts that you get your maids to trail after me.”

“I only wondered where you could be going. Your Uncle and I are worried, Nathaniel. You’re mixing with people like Mr Minyard, who, quite frankly, just isn’t a man you should be spending time with.”

“I don’t see why it matters,” he hisses. He wants to shout, scream, run away, but he keeps it all contained. It is a flimsy lid on a container which is surely going to explode one day. “We arrive in New York soon. There will be all the time in the world to torture me when we get there. Spending time with a third-class man isn’t going to hurt me.”

“That particular third-class man is bad news, Nathaniel.”

“What?”

“Andrew Minyard, formerly Andrew Doe. Did you know,” she says, a satisfied gleam in her eyes when she knows she’s got Neil’s attention, “that he killed his foster brother? And then his birth mother dies under suspicious circumstances a year or so later. Then when he’s in hospital being treated with psychosis, a respectable Doctor by the name of Dr Proust goes missing? And guess who he last treated. Minyard.”

“That’s all circumstance. Andrew wouldn’t -”

“How do you know that, Nathaniel? He came to dinner with us. He tried to save your life when you looked at the propellers,” she says, raising her eyebrows as if she doesn’t believe that excuse at all. “But that is it. You don’t know him.”

Numb with shock, Neil just volleys back, “I know that he respects people. I know that he’s protecting his family.”

“He’s a monster,” Lola snarls. “And you should stay away.”

“You aren’t in charge of me.”

“You’re right. I’m not. But Stuart is. And when we get to New York, your Daddy will be.” Lola reaches across the table and brushes her long, sharp nail up his wrist. “You’ll just be mine to play with.”

Neil shudders. It turns his blood cold and dread snakes closer to his heart. The timer is ticking down until he is off of this ship and he will -

-  never see Andrew again.

Despite what Lola has just spewed at him, that realisation hurts more than all of it.

“How do you know any of that about him is true?”

“Don’t worry about how I know it,” she says. Her voice grates against his skin and he is overcome with how much he hates her and how much he hates Stuart Hartford. “It’s reliable information, Nathaniel. If you want, I’ll show you the medical records. They say he was quite the struggler. Never stayed still, so they injected him with all sorts so he’d calm down.” She winds a finger around her temple. “Maybe that’s what made him so unhinged.”

Neil thinks of the calm man who he knows. He thinks of the man who offered to call him ‘Neil’ to help him escape himself.

“Stop talking,” he says icily, “or I’ll make you.”

She doesn’t seem scared or even at all perturbed. Instead, a wild smile grows on her face, one which makes her eyes into bottomless pits. “That’s the type of spirit Nathan will want you to have. The type of anger.”

“I’m not angry. I’m done.”

He gets up to leave. She calls behind him, “Don’t forget who you belong to, Nathaniel Wesninski,” which makes his fists clench and the desire to break something surge through his veins. That is what she wants, though. Lola and Nathan want him to be hurting, to lash out. At the moment, he is burning hot, and the thought of visiting Andrew is like jumping into ice.

* * *

It is times like this which Andrew has learned to appreciate, gaps in between the stress of life, peaceful moments where he can look at the sky and breathe in the air. Neil is by him. He is holding a cigarette without actually smoking it. He looks at it like it has personally offended him.

“If you’re not going to smoke it, there’s no point holding it.”

Neil looks up like he’s been shocked, even though he must have been aware that Andrew would catch sight of his odd behaviour. It had been his cigarette, after all.

“Oh. Yes.” But Neil doesn’t give it back.

“Why are you doing that?”

“The smell - it reminds me of my mother.”

“Why? Where is she?”

Neil swallows. His eyes scream internal conflict, but his voice is calm as he says, “Dead.”

Andrew hums. Neil doesn’t offer up an explanation and Andrew doesn’t ask for one. There’s something bothering Neil. Something must have gotten under his skin and Andrew wants to know what exactly so he can push it away. He doesn’t make a habit of wanting things, but he wants to see Neil smile like had last night.

_Maybe_ , that joyless voice from the back of his head says, _he regrets spending time with you._

It stings far more than it should. He eyes the crinkle in Neil’s forehead, the frown, the storm in his eyes and debates whether he should ask.

Before Andrew has the chance, Neil exhales shakily and confesses, “Lola told me something. Something about you. Your - past.”

Andrew reacts to the words before he registers them properly. He goes tense and his blood turns icy. His past is a minefield. There’s a broad range of issues which Lola could have gotten her dirty fingers on, and not a single one of them advertises him as the perfect company.

Carefully, Andrew says, “You’ll have to be specific.”

Neil is looking anywhere but him. He stares at the end of the cigarette as it burns away. He opens his mouth and closes it for a few long seconds.

“She said you killed your foster brother.”

Memories of Drake infiltrate his mind. He thinks of being forced into a pillow, the pain which felt like he was being split into jagged pieces, gripping the headboard desperately. He remembers Aaron’s horrified expression and the blood and the wide, dead eyes.

It happened to him and there’s no avoiding that. Yet he’s surprised quite how much he cares about Neil’s reaction. He’s built a tentative thing here, something genuine - and now his fractured past is going to come and cleanly demolish that.

“Is that a question or a statement.”

“A question.”

“Then your answer is no.” Just as Neil goes to breathe a sigh of relief, Andrew tacks on, “Aaron did.”

“What?”

There’s no point hiding from the truth. If Lola has her hands on that information, then Andrew knows she will do whatever she can to pull apart Neil’s trust for him. Lying will only drive Neil further away. “Aaron killed my foster brother.”

“What about your birth mother? And - and the doctor?”

Andrew looks at Neil with raised eyebrows. He tries to hide his surprise behind his apathy but his heart is aching with the realisation that this is probably it. Andrew will spend his last days on the Titanic with Aaron and Nicky whilst Neil once again becomes a stranger.

The flicker of hope extinguishes and he sneers.  “Are you sure your fragile heart can handle the answer?”

“I’m not fragile. I grew up in a crime family. I grew up with my father, and he -” Neil’s words stop suddenly, a confession he seems panicked nearly escaped his lips.

Curiosity sparks in Andrew’s stomach. He tries to ignore it, but Neil’s father has been mentioned several times before, always accompanied by a pained expression. “Your father, as in, the one you’re visiting?”

“Visiting,” Neil repeats with a sad laugh. “I wish that were the case.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence. Andrew tries to shove away everything clawing inside of him. Neil finally takes a drag of the dying cigarette. The end flares up and smoke trickles from his mouth into a cloud. Neil is pushing all sorts of boundaries he wouldn’t dare cross normally. His hair isn’t neatly combed and he seems to be dressed casually today, the absence of a tie making him look strangely normal.

For a second, Andrew imagines this wild-haired stranger in Italy with him. He imagines sketching him with Rome in the backdrop.

“Tell me about your father,” Andrew says, “and I’ll tell you about the doctor and my birth mother.”

Neil finally looks at him. He looks dubious.

“Like a secret exchange or something?” he asks. His voice is sarcastic yet his eyes are hopeful.

“If you like.”

Neil takes a second, but he nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You first.”

Neil takes another drag of the cigarette to steady himself. Andrew waits patiently until Neil is ready to talk.

“My father,” he says, hushed, “is Nathan Wesninski. He’s … not a very nice man. He -” Neil pauses and his eyes flicker to Andrew, where he seems to find some comfort. He continues with a shaky sigh. “I’ve got scars. Lots. Because of him. So when I was young and he almost killed me, my mother took me and ran. He’s been after us. But we’ve been protected by the Hartfords, or so I thought.” Neil’s eyes darken. “The second my mother died, Stuart sold me back to my father.”

As Andrew listens, the puzzle clicks together. Neil’s inner turmoil. His insistence that his life isn’t all peachy.

His desire to jump into the Atlantic ocean.

“He’s wanted me back for years. Lola is one of his. He gave her to me as sort of a … symbol of loyalty.”

“What will he do to you?” asks Andrew quietly. They are speaking almost in whispers. Neil seems hyper-aware of somebody passing them several metres away, although there’s no way they could be heard whilst speaking at this volume.

“He told Stuart that all he wants me for is so I can take over the family business. But he’ll punish me for what my mother did. If he was that brutal with an eight-year-old,” Neil says, his fear starting to wheedle into his voice, “what will he do to an adult?”

Andrew grits his teeth and lets his mind whir. Neil’s father will hurt him. Neil’s father has hurt him. Yet Stuart is delivering him there, packaged up with his fiancee.

No wonder Neil hates this ship so much.

Andrew lights another cigarette. He lost his previous one to Neil. He takes a long, steadying drag and spits out, “My birth mother.”

Neil is watching him with an odd look in his eyes. Andrew can’t place it. He can’t stand it, either.

“She had twins. Gave one to an orphanage. That one was me.” Andrew blows out an aggressive stream of smoke, remembering being passed between foster homes which seemed to get worse as he got older. “She kept Aaron.”

“How did you two meet, then?”

“By a twist of fate. Call it lucky, unlucky, whatever. We first met at fourteen,” Andrew explains, trying to ignore the way Neil is looking at him. “And Tilda was a shitty mother. She had issues and was passing them onto her son. I went to live with them, and I warned her -”

He has to stop for a second. Something is coiling inside of him and he’s crushing his cigarette. Eventually, he irons out his emotions until there is nothing but a faint flickering, something he can always ignore.

“I warned her to stop hurting him. She didn’t. There was an accident which she was involved in,” Andrew says, “which killed her. Aaron still blames me.”

Neil nods a few times. He absorbs the information, his mind obviously trying to get a grasp on what he’s just been told. He doesn’t recoil or run away, not like most people would.

“My mother used to hurt me,” Neil says. “To protect me. So I wouldn’t tell people about my father.”

Andrew feels glad that Neil’s mother is already dead.

“And the doctor - he used to hurt me.” He thinks of Proust, his swimming vision, the pain he had grown familiar with after Drake. He also thinks of how Proust had clawed desperately at his arms as Andrew had watched him bleed out on the floor. “So I put a stop to it.”

“Oh,” Neil says softly. “Lola made it sound …”

“As if I was a cold-blooded killer.” Andrew scoffs. “I’m used to it.”

Andrew gets the sickening realisation that Neil is going to sympathise with him, now. He isn’t a victim. He doesn’t need or want Neil’s pity.

“I’m over it. I don’t care about any of that.”

“It sounds awful.”

“So does your father.” Andrew takes a drag, focusing on the strong taste rather than the burning anger in his fingertips. “And he’s still alive.”

“Don’t tell anybody about that,” Neil says. “I - it’s not something I want to be public knowledge. I’m not a killer.”

“Is this ‘family business’ what I think it is?”

Their eyes meet. The dread in Neil’s expression speaks for itself.

Andrew feels that childish, impulsive urge to invite Neil with him once they get off the ship. Now he has even more of a reason - Neil will face the hands of his murderous father if he doesn’t. But it’s a frightening thought, letting these sort of feelings dictate the way he lives. Andrew has always been very detached in his actions, doing what is the easiest option. Getting rid of Tilda, killing Proust, protecting Nicky and Aaron - all of those had been necessary.

Neil seems to pull out all sorts of strange reactions from him, things he would never do if it was anybody else. He hadn’t meant to like Neil at all. He had been perhaps a little intriguing and attractive, and it had been fun to make him stutter, but it had been more fun to uncover the mask which he was hiding behind.

Now, Andrew has just bared his darkest memories with Neil and he has done the same in return.

Suddenly, everything is too much. Neil is too much. The sun is too much. The horrible, sickening realisation that _this means something to him_ is too much.

He leaves Neil with his half-finished cigarette, words on his tongue which never get the chance to be said.

* * *

“Another ice warning, Captain.”

The Captain nods and barely falters in his conversation with Stuart. Stuart is asking about the ship, about why they have two steering wheels, and the Captain answers happily.

“Ice warning?” asks Lola curiously.

“Not to worry, miss! Perfectly normal for this type of year.” The Captain folds the paper warning in his hand and shoves it in his pocket. “In fact, we’re speeding up. We’ll arrive in New York sooner than anticipated.”

The weight of his anxiety becomes almost unbearable. For a second, he feels as if he’s going to be sick. New York isn’t far away now. His father isn’t far away now. They’re getting closer to him with every passing second, and now, they’re getting faster.

The tour of the ship is dull and tedious. Lola goes ‘ooh’ and occasionally ‘aah’ if something catches her attention. Stuart admires it all with interest, quizzing the workers and the designers and getting enthusiastic answers.

Privately, Neil thinks that the third-class area is much more interesting than this. He wants to see the look on Stuart’s face as he takes note of the undignified dancing and feral characters of the third-class rather than the overly polished wood.

Neil and Lola are walking arm in arm behind Stuart and a man who Neil has forgotten the name of. He’s rambling on about the lifeboats, about how they will only fit half the people on the ship.

“Isn’t that hazardous?” Neil asks politely.

Stuart laughs. “Come on, Nathaniel. This ship is unsinkable.”

“It’s a waste of perfectly good deck space, if you ask me,” Lola agrees.

“If the ship were to sink,” says the lifeboat-man, saying were to sink as if it is almost impossible, “then you would be safe, Mr Hartford. The first-class would be evacuated safely.”

Neil thinks of Andrew down in third-class. Always the last priority, when he’s worth more to Neil than all of the first-class put together.

That admission puts an ache in his gut that he isn’t quite sure how to interpret. Caring about Andrew has snuck up on him. He had never intended to let himself fall into the trap of friendship, but they were undoubtedly friends now. Andrew has shared half of his secrets and Neil has confessed about his father, something which has been ripping him apart since he stepped onto the Titanic.

His throat feels tight, so when Lola asks if he’s alright, all he can manage is a nod.

* * *

Neil finds Andrew later that evening at the front of the ship, the wind blowing his hair back and his eyes on the water.

“Andrew,” he calls softly.

The sunset casts Andrew’s pale skin in an orange light, his eyes almost golden.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Andrew reminds him. “I’m dangerous, remember?”

“You’re not dangerous.”

“I’ll push you off the edge.”

Neil says, “No, you wouldn’t.”

“And you know that, do you?”

“You would have done it already,” Neil replies, mirroring their first ever conversation, when Neil had been hanging off the back of the ship and Andrew had held out a hand to pull him back over.

Andrew seems to remember. His eyes darken, but he never takes his gaze off the churning water. He seems almost transfixed by it, except his grip on the railing is so tight his knuckles have gone white. Neil wonders if he’s so wary of the fall, why he is forcing himself to look down over the edge.

It seems absurd that Andrew would be afraid of anything. He shouldn’t be scared of the fall. He shouldn’t be afraid of something as mundane as heights.

Neil stands next to Andrew, his hair being whipped back by the wind. He feels almost as if he is flying high above the waters like a bird, chained to no responsibilities, nothing weighing him down.

He steps up onto the first railing, but this time, not to jump off. Hesitantly, he spreads his arms out, feeling the wind glide past his skin. His hair will be a mess by the time he goes back inside, but he doesn’t care - Neil couldn’t care about anything while he’s here.

Andrew’s hands are a light pressure on his back. He can feel them steadying him, keeping him from falling. It sends a spiral of warmth through his body at the realisation that Andrew is worried about him tumbling over the edge. Andrew Minyard, who claims to care about nothing.

“Neil,” he says, almost drowned out by the whip of the wind. “Yes or no?”

Neil doesn’t know what Andrew wants to do, but his answer is a vehement yes before he can even think about it. This feeling of trust is odd but exhilarating. He can’t imagine throwing his safety into the hands of anybody else.

Andrew’s hands curl around his waist, solid and secure. Distantly, Neil thinks of Lola, his father, his future, but all of those thoughts are drowned out by Andrew’s hands holding him up, pushing those thoughts away.

He can feel Andrew’s heart beating quickly against his back, his ragged breathing, the tight clutch of his fingers against Neil’s waist.

Life drops away. Neil breathes in the air, closing his eyes and focusing on nothing but the gliding wind and Andrew’s hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're reading this, I love you
> 
> next chapter will include the iconic "draw me like one of ur french girls" scene so STAY TUNED


	3. three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what always annoyed me about titanic is that jack and rose had a whole tragic romance in like two days. and we all know that andreil is Slowburn™ so trying to fit them into the timeline of "meet-kiss-fuck-die" in 24 hours isnt too easy lmao
> 
> so if anything seems sort of rushed? thats why

Neil leads him to the room with fingers loosely wrapped around his wrist. Usually, simply a brush of contact against his arms is enough to make him flinch and for bitter memories to rise up to the surface, but Andrew is learning quickly that there is Neil and then there is everyone else. Somehow, this rich boy has captured his attention, reeled him in with secrets and smiles, and now there is a low murmur of affection in Andrew’s heart which he hadn’t meant to let get in.

He doesn’t believe in regret. Even if he did, he couldn’t regret Neil.

Once they get to the room, Neil lets go of him. Andrew looks at his arms, which are covered by black armbands up to his elbows, and wonders how Neil would react to the pale scars crisscrossing up his forearms. He isn’t ashamed of them. He doesn’t want pity for them. It happened - it gave him a semblance of control whilst Drake made his life a dark pit of misery. It is over now. Drake is dead and buried.

“This is the sitting room,” Neil says. His hair is still wild from the wind. Andrew resists the powerful impulse to run his fingers through the hair and distracts himself by looking around the room.

He looks at the fireplace, the flowers in pots around the room, the pictures hanging on the wall. He eyes the clever use of colour in the art, the gaudy splashes of yellow and the blended undertones of orange. Andrew traces his finger over them. He’s never been able to afford good quality paints, but he’s always wanted them. He’s always wanted to fill out a blank piece of paper with something other than black and white.

“Is the lighting okay?”

“What?”

Neil smiles, mischief shining through his smile. “I was under the impression that artists require good lighting when drawing.”

“Mhm. And what is it I’m supposed to be drawing?”

It isn’t difficult to guess the answer when Neil settles himself on the sofa and looks at Andrew with those blue, blue eyes. His body is slanted suggestively, like one of those models in Paris, except there’s a frustrating amount of clothes on his torso.

Andrew feels his throat go dry. Neil’s face is something magnetic in this low light. All the shadows seem darker and all the colours seem brighter. It seems a crime to draw Neil without colour.

“You know how you drew those men in Paris?” Neil asks. His fingers hover over the buttons on his shirt with uncertainty.

“Yes.”

“I want you to draw me like one of the French boys,” Neil says.

Andrew can’t find his voice. He nods, wondering how somebody so thoroughly vulnerable would give up his safety net like this. This only barrier left between them. Neil is slowly pulling that away.

“Yes or no?” Neil asks quietly.

“Yes,” Andrew says.

Neil unbuttons his shirt slowly. He closes his eyes as if he can’t bear to see Andrew’s reaction. His fingers shake minutely. Andrew wants to reach over a steady those fingers, thread them between his own, but Neil is stripping away his last defence. Andrew stays a fair distance away, just far enough to give him room. His eyes latch onto each strip of skin revealed, burning it into his memory.

Eventually, Neil lets the shirt drop.

A curl of surprise nestles in Andrew’s stomach, but he keeps his expression perfectly blank. Neil’s skin is a ruined landscape. On his right shoulder, Andrew sees the beginning of a burn, which drips down to his shoulder blade and out of sight. There’s a puckered scar which looks like a bullet wound just right of his jutting collarbone. His stomach has numerous slashes from knives.

Andrew thinks about his own scars, deliberate and even. Neil’s are haphazard and painful.

“I know they’re ugly,” Neil says, eyes still closed. They carve into his skin in a way which should be unattractive, but all Andrew can think is how each of these is a hard-won trophy. This man, who is outwardly nothing but a privileged rich kid, has survived all of this that life has thrown at him.

His skin may be a ruined landscape, but that ruin is what makes it interesting. It is what makes him strong. Andrew has always been attracted to the art which is the most abstract, not one colour contained within lines, not a blank canvas with a small drawing in the middle. He’s drawn to messy, bright art which makes him _feel._

If Neil is anything, _messy_ and _bright_ are two words which fit perfectly.

“Neil,” Andrew says cautiously. Neil’s eyes finally flutter open. “Can I touch you?”

Neil looks to Andrew’s hands, which are still firmly at his sides, and nods.

Slowly, giving plenty of time for Neil to recoil, he smooths his thumb over the burn at the top of his shoulder. It’s one of the worst on his whole body, the flesh mangled and burned beyond repair. This must have hurt. This would hurt any man, no matter how tough he claimed to be.

“What happened?”

“A hot iron,” he says shakily.

Andrew grits his teeth, imagining several creative ways he could make Neil’s father pay.

_Come with me,_ hovers at his lips. _Come with me off the ship._

It feels like a dangerous question. It feels too close, too real. Neil is only a distraction whilst he’s on the Titanic. After that, he’s nothing.

Andrew doesn’t feel pity, but he knows that Neil won’t survive his father.

_He’ll punish me for what my mother did_ , Andrew remembers Neil saying. Neil doesn’t need any more scars on his skin, courtesy of a dead woman.

“ _Exactly_ like the boys in Paris?” Andrew confirms, pointedly glancing at Neil remaining clothes. When Neil looks down hesitantly, Andrew reminds him, “If it’s a no, then they can stay on.”

Neil shoots him a grateful little smile. His hands still venture down to his belt, which he unbuckles with deft fingers, stepping out of his trousers until his legs are revealed as well.

Andrew feels a tightness in his chest and a growing heat in his stomach. Slowly, almost teasingly, Neil tugs down the last item of clothing.

Then there is nothing between them except a long silence.

“So,” Neil says, more breath than words, cheeks flushed. Andrew isn’t sure whether it’s embarrassment or something else. “Should I lie down?”

 

* * *

When he’s drawing, Andrew’s face is different. His eyes aren’t empty. His expression isn’t stone cold. Neil watches how he looks almost at peace, eyes flickering between Neil’s body and the drawing, concentration creasing into his forehead.

Obscurely, Neil doesn’t feel vulnerable. There had been a slight tension in his shoulders when he’d first settled into the pillows, yet the second Andrew had started drawing everything had melted away. Neil focuses on the glimmer of Andrew’s eyes in the low light. He looks at how he pulls his lip between his teeth when thinking. He looks at Andrew’s steady, careful hands and feels warmth trickle through him.

Neil is so caught up in his feelings that he doesn’t see Andrew get up. It’s only when he says, “Neil,” in a soft voice that he’s startled out of his haze. He sits up, remembering about his nudity when Andrew’s eyes flit to his thighs and then wrench away like he’d been doing something wrong.

Andrew kneels down and picks up the clothes on the floor. “Do you want these back on?”

Neil thinks about it. Clothes seem awfully restricting. Existing in his own skin without judgement or disgust feels liberating.

But sensibly, he knows that he can’t walk around naked for the rest of the evening. He takes the clothes from Andrew’s hands and tries not to look Andrew in the eye as he pulls his bottom half back on. He buttons up his shirt halfway, leaving a strip of his chest exposed. 

“Can I see?”

Andrew nods and leads him to the perch where his paper is. Neil has to blink a few times before he registers that the confident, attractive man on the paper is him.

Andrew has drawn his surroundings lightly, as if they’re faded in comparison to him. His legs look long and his eyes are relaxed, a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and the slight curve of a smile beginning to push his lips up. Andrew is a fantastic artist, but this … this isn’t Neil. He doesn’t look like that. His accidental glances in a mirror greet him with a man who looks identical to Nathan Wesninski, auburn hair and cruel eyes, shoulders hunched and a flimsy smile.

His scars have been drawn ever so carefully. Andrew has made them a part of him, intertwined with his skin, not ugly and large. They look natural. Neil’s hand absently traces a scar on his stomach and he feels sick with just how okay he feels about them right now. The second he leaves this little safe haven he has crafted with Andrew, the discomfort will come charging right back, but for now - Neil is content to exist in this blissful reality for a few more minutes.

“It’s amazing,” he says. “It’s - I - I love it. Thank you, Andrew.”

Andrew is looking at the drawing with something peculiar in his eyes. Gently, he picks up the drawing and hands it to Neil.

“Keep it.”

“Me?”

“Well, it’s a drawing of you, isn’t it?” Andrew says. It’s a sarcastic statement, but his voice is quiet. Soft, almost.

“It doesn’t look like me,” Neil says. “I look … loose.”

Andrew quirks an eyebrow. “Loose.”

“You know. Relaxed. _Happy_.” Neil says the word like it hurts to think about it. “But … I know I don’t look like that. Not in real life.”

“I draw from life, Neil,” Andrew says.

That is all he says. It’s enough.

 

* * *

“What do you mean, _nobody_ has seen him?” Stuart asks the servant, who looks anxiously between him and Lola.

“He hasn’t been seen since daylight,” the servant answers.

“This is ridiculous,” Lola snarls. “It’s a ship. There’s only so many places someone can be.”

Stuart imagines stepping from the ship without Nathaniel by his side. Nathan Wesninski is infamous for his brutality, and he doesn’t take too kindly to broken promises. Lola, despite her false politeness, is a pair of eyes for the Wesninskis on the Titanic. Stuart isn’t a stupid man. He knows that Lola is not here to be a good wife to Nathaniel; her loyalty will never stray from Nathan.

Giving Nathaniel over is inhumane, but Stuart is a man who works based on logic. The Wesninskis hadn’t just been after Mary and Nathaniel. They would be willing to obliterate any Hartford simply for their involvement. One man’s suffering is another man’s peace.

Stuart sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Nathaniel always seems to be stirring up some kind of trouble.

“Find him, Lovejoy,” he orders, pointing a finger at a sullen-faced man in a suit. “He’s late for supper.”

 

* * *

An hour passes.

It’s a blissful hour.

Andrew listens to Neil’s voice, smooth and deep. He watches how Neil is relaxed, not jiggling his leg or fiddling with something like he always seems to be doing in Lola’s company. They discuss more of their lives, little details which somehow mean more than the big, dark secrets. Andrew finds out that Neil likes fruit, that he hates caviar, that he hates wearing hats, that he always used to get in trouble for rolling up the sleeves of his shirts and wrinkling them. Slowly but surely, Andrew weaves together all the stray pieces of Neil’s life until he feels like he knows him. Really knows him.

“Can I ask you something?” Neil asks quietly, like someone else could overhear.

Andrew nods.

“Why don’t you like being touched?”

All of the words he assembles fall into a heap in his mind. There’s no way he could explain it fluidly, not without breaking something. He thinks of Drake, the countless other homes, Proust and his horrible medical methods. He thinks of being seven and confused. He thinks of being thirteen and paralysed with fear as the door creaks open, Drake’s horrible, horrible voice slipping into the quiet. He thinks of being eighteen and still not having freedom, still not being able to say yes or no and it mattering.

Neil is looking at him. It feels like his trauma is a wound and he’s covered in bandages. He doesn't want to take off the bandages just in case they won’t go back on properly. Neil might finally decide that Andrew’s just too broken for him to handle. Maybe talking about it will just make it worse. Maybe -

Maybe, maybe, maybe. So many what-ifs. Andrew is a man of simplicity, of logic. Yes means yes. No means no. The word ‘maybe’ is a weak median which Andrew doesn’t have time for.

He decides that Neil doesn’t need to hear the whole story. Not yet, anyway. They’ve got a day left together, maybe less if the rumours about speeding up are true.

_Unless_ , his mind says, a wheedling voice which won’t go away, _you ask him to come with you. Then you’ll have a long time with him._

“I can never trust where people are going to put their hands,” he says simply.

“You let me touch your hand.” It’s not a question. “You let me grab your arm. But anyone else -”

“It’s different,” Andrew says. “I can’t trust them.”

“And you trust me?”

Andrew just glares at him. He’s angry that Neil can evoke these kinds of emotions. He’s angry that Neil notices tiny things about him that nobody else would ever even think of. He’s angriest that he doesn’t even _mind_ that Neil knows him, that Neil knows he killed Aaron’s mother and Dr Proust.

“You talk far too much,” Andrew tells him.

Neil takes the hint and doesn’t say anything else. They loll about in silence for a few moments and Andrew looks at how Neil’s shirt is still a little unbuttoned at the top.

It’s inevitable that something interrupts them. Andrew’s life has been hellish since he was born and disregarded by Tilda. It’s like the universe is showing him glimpses of unadulterated, untainted peace in the form of Neil and then tearing it away before he can have too much.

The knock on the door is a brisk, professional knock, no doubt one of Stuart’s manservants on a search for a rogue Neil. Their minds seem to travel in parallel and Neil puts a finger to his lips, pointing to the back door and offering out a hand.

Andrew barely considers before he’s reaching out and taking Neil’s hand, fingers loosely intertwined. Neil leads them through several doors and they pause for a second, listening to see if anybody followed. Sure enough, there’s the tell-tale click of a door shutting.

Neil tugs Andrew further along until they reach a small hallway. Andrew finds it amusing how there can be quite so many doors leading to different places. In his room, there is only one door, and most of them manage to function fairly well with that number.  
“At least he’s kind enough to close the doors behind him,” Neil says, rolling his eyes.

Around five seconds later, there’s a call of, “Nathaniel! Stop!”

Neil whips his head around. When he sees the servant, he doesn’t freeze up or show any sign of giving in like he probably would have several days ago.  Instead, he looks to Andrew, a boyish grin breaking out on his face and their brisk walk turns into a run.

Andrew realises that they’re still holding hands in a way which is far too romantic for the public eye, but nobody gets the chance to look at them properly. Neil expertly dodges people and snakes past crowds, so agile on his feet that Andrew wonders why he’s contained himself to walking sensibly all of this time. Once again, Andrew feels like this is what Neil would look like if he hadn’t grown up conditioned by the upper classes.

“Lovejoy would die for Stuart,” Neil says breathlessly, flattening himself against the wall as Andrew follows him down the stairs, nearly colliding with a food trolley in the haste. “He won’t stop until he catches us.”

Andrew gives Neil’s hand a squeeze. “Then we won’t let him catch us.”

Neil smiles and sprints off to the elevator. The doors are shut behind them, the steward looking alarmed by their rush but obliging regardless. They’ve just started their descent as Lovejoy comes skidding to a halt, eyes narrowing at Neil as they sink lower.

Neil, with a grin which could cut ice, presents Lovejoy his middle finger.

Andrew feels a deep ache in his chest. He grips Neil’s hand just a little tighter, who turns his vivacious stare to Andrew once Lovejoy disappears from sight.

It takes iron self-control not to tug Neil down until their lips meet.

Once the elevator reaches the E deck, Neil barges his way through with a few haphazard apologies when he collides with people. Out the corner of his eyes, Andrew notices that a red-faced Lovejoy is sprinting down the last flight of stairs, eyes never leaving them.

“Neil,” he warns.

They burst into a room and Andrew flicks the lock once they’re both inside. It’s some kind of engine room with a hatch which leads down the boiler room,  where there is a steam and workers and a whole lot of noise. Andrew can’t hear Neil, but pointedly looks at the hatch and swings his legs through the gap. He tries not to inhale too much smoke and lands with a thud, his ankles flaring at the impact. Neil doesn’t need help down, but Andrew steadies him regardless. He doesn’t miss how Neil tries not to grab onto him too much.

Third-class seems like some kind of heaven in comparison to this. The men shovelling coal into fires all have dirty skin with sweat soaking their clothes. Neil’s eyebrows shoot up as he takes in the poor surroundings, but Andrew urges him to keep walking with a hand pressing the small of his back.

“Oi! What’re you two doing down here?”

Neil’s British accent seems ridiculously posh in comparison to this cockney man. “Oh. Sorry. We were just -”

“It could be dangerous!”

“Thank you for the concern,” Andrew replies, pushing Neil forwards and relishing in the childish giggle which he manages to hear over the grind and thump of the machinery.

They emerge in a room filled with cargo. The chill strikes them both immediately, such a difference from the heat of the boiler room that it’s like a slap. Neil barely restrains a shiver and weaves around a few of the boxes. When Andrew catches sight of the Renault, his stomach goes tight and his heart skips a beat.

Cars like this are expensive. He’s always admired them from a distance, but now he is standing in front of one. His breath catches in his throat and he reaches out to brush his fingers along the front. He thinks of Nicky and Aaron’s reactions. Nicky would probably make far too much noise for the current atmosphere, squawking like an overgrown bird about how beautiful the car is. Aaron would freeze and go pale, daring to reach out and feel the glide of the paint underneath his hands.

Neil notices him looking with admiration and says, “What?”

“It’s a Renault,” Andrew says quietly.

“Oh?” Neil says, like it’s nothing. “Yes, I think Stuart has one of these. Cars aren’t really of interest to me. Do you like cars?”

Andrew’s silence is enough of an answer. Neil nods considerately and opens the back door, stepping up into it. Before he follows, Andrew touches the steering wheel lightly.

Neil is waiting on the back seat, legs sprawled out and the remnants of a grin on his face. His hair is still wild and sweaty, freckles standing out against the flush on his cheeks. Andrew closes the door and settles on the seat, smoothing his palms over the interior. He doesn’t understand how Neil can be so blasé about this car.

“He won’t find us here,” Neil says quietly.

“What if he does?”

“I suppose you’ll have to fight him for me,” Neil says with a grin.

“I’m not fighting anybody.”

Neil raises his eyebrows. Maybe it’s an agreement. Or maybe he sees right through the act. Andrew knows that if Lovejoy did emerge, he would fight for Neil without a second thought.

And that scares him. He doesn’t need to fight for Neil. He can just let Neil go, release him to a barbaric father and get on with his life. Two ignorant children to look after are already enough.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Andrew says after a moment of thought, going against every impulse in his body.

“A deal?”

“I’ll protect you. Fight for you.” Andrew feels his skin crawl. These words are too close, too intimate. He’s so used to shutting down and keeping emotions walled off that this feels like an uphill battle. He grits the rest out with a clenched jaw. “And you give me something in return.”

“What’s the point? We’re going to arrive in New York by Tuesday. Protecting me from Stuart won’t matter once I’m -”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what?”

“I protect you,” Andrew says, annoyed, “from everything. Everyone. Including your father.” Neil is still looking at him blankly, so he adds, “Off the ship.”

For several heavy moments, there’s a silence. Neil’s breathing evens out and his smile drips off, staring at Andrew with a seriousness in his eyes. It looks like there are words stuck at the back of his throat, words he wants to say but can’t.

“You mean - come with you? And your family?”

“If you want to.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Neil look so relieved. His eyes light up and there’s a disbelieving smile on his lips, almost like he’s expecting Andrew to retract the offer. Almost like he’s waiting for something to go wrong. But when Andrew just meets his eyes and lets the offer hang in the air, he breathes out like he’s been holding his breath for years.

Neil’s reply is strong. “Yes. Yes, that’s - that’s amazing - I - what do you want in return?”

Andrew doesn’t say anything, but his eyes flick to Neil’s lips and his neck and imagines pressing his mouth there. “I won’t ask for it yet.”

“You’re really okay with me coming with you?”

“Well, it’s either that or you get tortured. I don’t think Nicky could manage letting you go like that.”

“Oh, Nicky can’t handle letting me go?” Neil teases.

Andrew scoffs. “Don’t fool yourself. I told you I don’t care about anything.”

Neil doesn’t seem perturbed. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t stop smiling, he doesn’t move away. “And like I said. Everyone cares for something.”

Andrew lets the silence drag on and on, fixing his eyes on the floor to avoid looking at Neil. He feels closer than he was before, even though Andrew would have seen if he’d shifted closer. His eyes have been stuck to Neil since they got in the car.

Andrew knows it is his turn in the game of truths, but he can’t seem to think properly. His mind is running around the same few thoughts, imagining Neil is a foreign country, tanned and smiling, messy-haired and free. He’s imagining sketching Neil in every position imaginable, doing everything possible. Neil looking up at the Eiffel Tower; waiting for a train; dancing with new people.

He settles on, “You don’t swing. Why not?”

Neil runs a hand through his hair as he collects a few words. “I don’t know. Getting close to people was always dangerous whilst growing up. That’s why Mom called me Neil, I guess. So ‘Nathaniel’ wouldn’t get traced back to me. She was scared, I think, that I was going to meet some girl and spill all my secrets.”

“So why don’t you swing now that she’s dead?”

Neil pulls his lower lip between his teeth in thought. Andrew imagines doing the same, biting Neil’s lip hard enough to leave indents. He promptly shakes that image away, a heat simmering in his stomach at the mere thought.

“I don’t think I liked those girls anyway. They were popular and cool, but it was more out of curiosity. Kissing for the sake of kissing. When Mom found out, she wasn’t too happy. I stopped kissing girls and I found I didn’t really miss it.”

“What did she do when she found out?” asks Andrew, aware that he’s taking more turns than he is allowed, but counting the questions in his head to give Neil a fair return. So far he owes Neil two truths.

“Her reactions were never very pleasant,” is all Neil replies. Andrew is smart enough to figure out what is left unsaid. He imagines Neil with bruises on his face, blood dribbling from his mouth, the same helpless and betrayed expression Aaron wore whenever Tilda would go on a violent, alcohol-induced rampage.

“Your family all seem like lovely people,” Andrew says sarcastically.

A troubled crease appears on Neil’s forehead. “I always knew my parents were bad people. But I always thought Stuart was … I don’t know. Nice. He always gave me food when Mom got angry and sent me upstairs. He always told me cool stories so the nightmares would go away. That’s -”

Neil chokes off before he can finish the sentence. Andrew hears it clearly - _that’s why his betrayal hurts so much more._

“He always called me Nathaniel. He said it was my name, and not to be ashamed of it.”

“You’re Neil,” Andrew says sternly. Neil’s reply is a poor imitation of a nod. “But you can’t be a Hartford. Not if you’re coming with us.”

“What should I be? Minyard?”

“No. You look nothing like me and Aaron.”

“Aside from the height,” quips Neil.

Andrew ignores that and keeps talking. “You’ll need a surname which doesn’t connect to anybody in the Wesninski or Hartford family. Something totally yours.”  
It takes a long minute. Eventually, Neil straightens his spine and says, “Josten.”

“Neil Josten,” Andrew tests. It feels just right on his tongue. Much better than ‘Nathaniel Wesninski’. “Any reason?”

“No. I just like it.”

_I like it, too_ , Andrew wants to say. Instead, he just says, “Whatever. Don’t regret choosing it.”

“I won’t,” Neil says softly, his eyes never leaving Andrew.

 

* * *

“You _lost_ him.”

“They went through a door and locked it, ma’am,” Lovejoy explains to an icy Lola. “I’ve sent people to unlock it and search the boiler room, but it’s likely they will have moved from there by now.”

“How incompetent can you possibly be, Lovejoy? Mr Hartford gave you simple instructions.”

Lola turns to the mirror angrily and looks at her reflection. She’s never been an excessively vain woman, but the sight of herself in an expensive, diamond necklace is thrilling. There isn’t much good about Stuart Hartford except for his handy ties to Nathaniel Wesninski and his money.

The necklace is an extremely rare diamond. Nathaniel had given it to her as a promise of his faith and love throughout their engagement. Lola had enjoyed the trapped, troubled look in Nathaniel’s eyes as he had said the word ‘love’ and placed it around her neck. Nathaniel would not have given this to her if Stuart Hartford hadn’t forced him. Nathaniel wants absolutely nothing to do with her.

She stares at herself for a few more seconds before her brain lights up. This necklace costs more than anything Minyard could ever dream to own. Surely, a peasant like him would just be itching to take something this valuable, to sell it and feed his pathetic little family?

Stealing the necklace would be a death sentence.

“That Minyard man is nothing. He can be taken down easily. Especially with his record.” Lola unclasps the necklace and lets the heavy jewel settle into her palm. Her neck feels oddly naked without it. “Just find him.”

Lovejoy looks at the necklace in her hand like he’s being tricked. “I don’t understand.”

“Prove you aren’t entirely worthless, Lovejoy.” She shoves the necklace into his hand. “Plant this on Minyard.”

Once it is snug in Lovejoy’s pocket, Lola looks in the mirror and dabs at her makeup until it is convincingly streaked down her cheeks. She looks like a mess, but which woman _wouldn’t_ look like a mess when her precious necklace has been _robbed_ from her?

“Nathaniel won’t be running off with him once he’s dead.”

 

* * *

By the time the men burst into the storage, there is no evidence that Neil and Andrew had ever been in there.

They are at the back of the boat, hands still intertwined. Neil doesn’t ever think he will ever tire of this small intimacy.

“When we dock,” Neil asks quietly, “how will you get me past Stuart?”

“Cover your hair. Wear different clothes. Walk like you’ve never been addressed as ‘sir’ in your entire life, and you’ll blend right in.”

Andrew snakes a hand onto the back of Neil’s neck, gripping his nape and tugging him down closer to Andrew’s height. The three inches between them seems criminal, considering how Neil is smiling that stupid smile and Andrew wants so badly to lean up and kiss it away.

“It’s a risk,” he adds.

Neil gives a breathy little laugh. “That’s why it makes sense.”

There’s nobody on the deck except them. The sky is dark, the stars their only witness. Andrew uncurls his fingers slowly, but Neil doesn’t move away. Their noses are almost touching.

“I want to try something,” Andrew says bluntly.

“Okay.”

Andrew’s forehead creases in frustration. His eyes are cloudy, like he’s running over a problem and can’t find the answer. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“I trust you,” Neil replies simply. His honesty seems to rile Andrew up even further.

“I won’t be like them,” Andrew snarls, and although Neil doesn’t know the full story regarding his touch-aversion is, he knows there is some element of mistrust. Neil isn’t stupid. He’s connected a few of the dots in Andrew’s stories and filled in some of the blanks. “You can’t just say yes when you don’t know what I want.”

Neil lets the words sink into the air for a moment. He mulls over his reply for a long second. “Anything is okay. Like I said, I trust -”

“You’ve known me for four days. I could be a killer. Maybe I’ve lied to you.”

“I have a hard time letting people in. And yet you know more about me than anyone. You think that if you were -”

Before Neil can finish that sentence, Andrew drags him forward and presses their lips together.

The shock overshadows it all at first. He’s never been kissed aside from the odd peck on the cheek by Lola when they’re putting on the madly-in-love show, so the feeling of Andrew’s warm, strong mouth is nothing but startling.

The second it becomes pleasant, Andrew rips himself away until there’s at least a meter in between them.

Andrew clenches his hands into fists. It doesn’t stop them from quivering. “I told you so.”

“I - that -”

“So next time you say yes,” spits Andrew, “think about it.”

Calmly, Neil traces his tingling lips and says, “I never said no. I never said I didn’t like it.”

“You don’t swing,” Andrew reminds him with an angry flash on his teeth. “You don’t like anyone. Remember?”

“I - yes. I don’t like men or women, not specifically, but I like - you.”

“What does that make you, then?”

“An anomaly,” Neil replies. “It makes me odd. It makes me abnormal. But that doesn’t make anything any less real.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you like me.” It is half a question, half a statement. Andrew looks irrationally angry for a second, although Neil doesn’t feel threatened by his clenched fists and hard expression. If anything, he’s afraid of how his words will come crashing down, how they will affect Andrew.

“Stop talking,” mumbles Andrew.

“Andrew,” Neil says. Andrew opens his eyes and stares at Neil like he’s never looked at him before. “Yes or no?”

There’s a very tense silence. Neil wonders whether this has been ruined. He hopes that Andrew still likes him enough to bring him along off the ship. He hopes that this kiss doesn’t shatter the tentative blanket of trust they’ve created.

Eventually, Andrew warns him, “Keep your hands to yourself.”

Neil nods frantically and puts his arms behind his back.

When they kiss again, it is marginally better. Neil is still inexperienced with kissing, especially with somebody as fervent as Andrew, who clutches at the front of Neil’s shirt like his knees are about to give out. Getting this close to somebody has never felt wise, not when he’s been hiding from his father all these years. However, Andrew’s promises have set him free. He’s no longer Nathaniel Hartford. The name Wesninski will never come near him again. He’s Neil Josten. He is real.

Andrew’s tongue slides along his, sending a jolt of something to his chest. His heart feels heavy and ready to burst from his chest. He tugs himself back for air and Andrew’s teeth latch onto his lip, biting down just hard enough to hurt, almost like he’s testing whether Neil’s mouth is real.

He is real. He is Neil Josten.

Andrew’s eyes are completely clear by the time Neil has pulled back entirely. The storm of his hesitation has been swept away. He still seems tense and his grip on Neil’s shirt is hard enough that there will be creases when he lets go - if he ever lets go.

“I liked that,” Neil says breathlessly. Andrew is almost trying to hide how breathless he is, but by the uneven quirks of his chest and desperate little gasps, he isn’t quite succeeding. “Can we do it again?”

“We’re in plain sight.”

“Is that a no?”

“It’s a yes,” Andrew says with a heavy sigh.

Neil battles a grin. He’s just about to lean in and recapture Andrew’s mouth, but before he can -

Neil is almost thrown backwards. There’s a violent jerk of the ship followed by a long, horrible groaning sound, the sound of metal being torn apart.

 

(Up in first-class, Stuart’s tea wobbles dangerously over the edge of his cup.)

 

At first, all Neil can do is let Andrew hold him up. With a steady hand around his waist, Andrew looks around.

That’s when the iceberg comes into view.

It’s huge and towering, at least double the size of the ship. Big, jagged bits of ice crumble onto the deck and skid across it. Andrew tugs him out of the way to the other side as a piece of ice bigger than Neil lands exactly where they were.

The groaning doesn’t cease for a long time. Andrew lets go of Neil to sprint to the side of the ship, leaning over to where the iceberg is still ripping against the metal.

“Shit,” Neil says, numb with shock. Andrew’s hand finds his again and squeezes tight enough to dislocate his knuckles.

Once the iceberg has passed, there’s a false calm about the water. But Neil knows that a gash that huge in the side of the ship can’t be good. The ship has come to a halt, floating stationary on the water.

 

(Up in first-class, Lola is assured that the shudder they felt was simply an issue with the propellers.)

 

“What just happened?”

Andrew simply looks at him. Neil looks back, panicked.

“Are we going to be okay?”

Andrew clenches his jaw and looks at the dent. His silence coupled with the unforgiving grip of his hand is an answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of you are sort of freaked out about the ending bc the ending of titanic is p heartbreaking. I don't want to spoil it, but im not about to ruin your souls so please don't worry too much :))


	4. four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OVER A MONTH? WOW it felt like a day I apologise
> 
> pls come and talk to me on tumblr andreaminyard

The first thing Andrew says is, “I have to find Aaron and Nicky.”  
Neil thinks about third-class, how low down it is, how close to the icy water which must surely be pouring in right now.

“Okay,” he says, following Andrew as he speeds past the shocked crowds who are staring at the broken pieces of ice on the deck. The desperate squeeze of Andrew’s fingers is the only betrayal of his panic.

Andrew moves like a flash of lightning, jumping down three steps at a time and nearly toppling Neil over in the process. Nobody on the higher decks seem to be panicking at all. But Andrew must know that a hole that big in the side of the ship means something bad. Something really bad.

But they don’t get far when they come face to face with Lovejoy.  
“Mr Hartford. Are you coming back?” he asks pleasantly - far too pleasantly. “Miss Lola has been waiting for you. She’s awfully distressed.”

“Ignore him,” Neil mumbles to Andrew. He lets himself be pulled along and watches with slight amusement how Andrew’s shoulder bumps Lovejoy’s chest as he goes past.

They’re far too busy deliberately not looking at the servant that neither of them notice how Lovejoy slips Lola’s necklace into Andrew’s pocket.

* * *

People are shouting. Some men make it through. Others remain trapped. As the water piles in through the gash in the side of the ship, the trapped men realise that this is certain death.

Up in the Helm, the Captain gravely announces to the others: “We need a distress call. Tell whoever responds that we're going down by the head.”

People look up at him, desperately waiting for him to offer some reassurance, but all he says is, “We need immediate assistance.”

Men desperately struggle to lower the lifeboats on the deck, shouting and hollering at each other, “Lower! Lower!”

Up in first class, Allison and Stuart listen to violins, entirely unaware that the whole room they’re standing in will be submerged in the Atlantic Ocean tomorrow.

* * *

“What’s happening?” Nicky asks, grabbing his suitcase and trying to wipe off the water. “Why is it wet?”

Aaron doesn’t reply and opens the door. The other people they’re sharing a room with follow behind him to look out into the hallway.

Rats.

A huge crowd of them, skittering across the hallway, followed by a bigger crowd of people racing after them. Their things are wet as well. Every time they run, water splashes at their ankles. The whole hall seems to be flooded. Aaron hears someone shout ‘Follow the rats! Follow the rats! They’ll know where to go!’

“Take what you want, Nicky,” Aaron instructs. He feels oddly vulnerable without Andrew here to lead them. Taking charge has never been his talent. “We have to go.”

Aaron seizes his case and drags Nicky out into the hallway, where they shove into the crowd of people and let themselves be led out of third-class.

“What’s happening?” Nicky asks again.

Aaron doesn’t know exactly what, but he's clever enough to make an educated guess that ankle-deep water on a ship isn't a good sign.

* * *

“Mr Hartford!” Lola says. Stuart double takes at her appearance. She looks like she’s had water chucked over her makeup and now it looks awfully unsightly. “Mr Hartford, it’s - I’ve been robbed!”

Stuart sets his glass of wine down and looks from her tear-streaked, crumpled face to her bare neck. Her collarbones stick out too much without the necklace to distract. That necklace seemed to make her easier to look at. Without it, Stuart sees the skinny, malicious woman underneath the money.

“My necklace. The one Nathaniel gifted me with,” she explains, fingers scrabbling at her naked neck, “has been stolen.”

“Stolen,” Stuart says, shocked. Then, outraged: “Stolen!”

“We need to find it, Sir, I can’t leave the ship without it.” There’s a small silence, and Lola adds, “Without him,” like she’d forgotten about Nathaniel altogether.

“Where is Lovejoy?” demands Stuart.

That necklace cost the Hartford family an atrocious amount. If Stuart hadn’t been adamant on making amends with Nathan Wesninski, he wouldn’t have wasted the money on a necklace for a woman like this. But he needs to find it, along with his nephew so they can get off the boat together tomorrow. He won’t have Nathaniel running off. Nathan Wesninski is a ruthless man and if he found out the third-class vermin which Nathaniel seems to be infatuated with …

“Here, Sir,” Lovejoy says, appearing.

“Find more of my men,” Stuart orders. “Get that necklace. Get the person who stole it and make them pay.”

“But Mr Hartford, isn’t it obvious who stole it?” Lola asks sweetly, innocently. She’s curled in on herself, skinny and weak, but Stuart knows the damage her mind can do. “The man who is jealous of Nathaniel and I. We have a connection, see, and that third-class man would do anything to destroy it!”

Stuart nods in agreement. He doubts Minyard would have had a chance to steal the necklace seeing as Lola wears it like a trophy everywhere she goes, but he would jump at any chance to get Minyard out of the picture. Then Nathaniel will come crawling back and Nathan Wesninski will get his son, just as promised.

“They should be on the lower decks,” Stuart instructs the servants. “Find them. Bring Nathaniel to me, unharmed. Do whatever you must to the Minyard boy.”  
“Yes, Mr Hartford.”

Stuart curls his lip. “He isn’t leaving this ship a free man.”

* * *

“Where are Nicky and Aaron?”

Andrew doesn’t reply, too busy scanning the crowd. Eventually, there’s a relieved shout of, “Andrew!” and Neil spots Aaron and Nicky being shoved around in a crowd. They make their way out, the bottoms of their trousers soaking wet and their things drenched.

“What’s going on?”

“We hit an iceberg,” Andrew explains, seizing Aaron’s wrist and pulling him along. “We have to get to the top decks.”

Aaron and Nicky barely spare Neil a second glance. They follow Andrew without complaint as he weaves through people at a much faster pace than they’d managed to before. Neil hasn’t spent much time with Nicky and Aaron apart from the third-class party after Andrew had wowed all the first-classers at dinner. They hadn’t spoken much even then, but Neil can sense the bone-deep loyalty that these three have for each other.

“An iceberg?” Aaron asks. He looks around as if he expects to see evidence. “That’s … that’s not good. How are we going to get to New York?”

Gravely, Andrew replies, “I’m not sure we will.”

Nicky whimpers. “What? We’re gonna sink?”

“You don’t know that. You can’t know that,” Aaron says, white-faced. “We could survive. We could make it. Maybe another ship will help us.”

“Maybe so,” is all Andrew says. It’s not a confirmation or a denial. Neil sees past the deliberate vagueness in Andrew’s uncertainty. Neil is so used to Andrew being a steady, solid weight to lean on that seeing him wobble isn’t a feeling Neil likes.

There’s a squeal of metal. Neil whips his head around and sees people wrenching the gate closed, effectively trapping everyone in the lower decks.

“They’re locking third-class, Andrew,” Neil says lowly. “So that first-classers can get on the lifeboats without being crowded.”

Neil remembers Matt and his pregnant wife Dan from the party. He remembers the strangers who danced with him. He remembers how lively and upbeat every had seemed and watches how they’re all shouting from behind the gate, trapped like animals.

Andrew’s lip curls and Nicky says, “Oh my god. They’re just gonna - keep them there?”

Neil is just thankful that Aaron and Nicky hadn’t been trapped on the other side.

“Water is rising down there,” spits Aaron. He looks back for a split second like he wants to run back and unlock the gate himself.

“You think they care?” Andrew says, equally venomously. “You’re not turning back to go and save anybody. You’ll die too.”

“If the ship sinks, we’ll die anyway. We won’t get on lifeboats looking like this,” Aaron volleys back, gesturing to his clothes.

Neil can sense the hesitation in Andrew. He jumps in. “You can. You just need to be accompanied.”

Andrew looks at Neil quizzically.

“If you stick by a first-classer and don’t let go, it’s too much of a rush to try and separate you,” he explains to Andrew. Aaron and Nicky can’t hear him over the crowds. “I’ll find someone.”

Just as Andrew goes to reply, they’re interrupted by a shout of, “There he is!” in an awfully familiar voice.

It’s Lovejoy again. But Stuart and Lola are beside him this time. Lola’s makeup is streaked like she’s been crying and Stuart’s mouth is pressed into a thin, angry line.

“Nathaniel! Stop. Your fiance's necklace has been stolen!”

Neil resists the urge to scoff. He goes to walk right past them, leading the others behind him, but Lovejoy seizes Andrew’s arm.

Neil reacts automatically, stepping in front of Lovejoy to shield Andrew. He doesn’t miss how Andrew goes tense. He doesn’t like to be touched, especially not by unfamiliar people, and here Lovejoy is, daring to grab his arm in such a harsh way.

“Get off,” Neil snarls.

“We suspect that your friend here has stolen something valuable. We must search him.”

“Of course he hasn’t. I’ve been with him all day!” Neil says. With every passing second, Andrew’s muscles are tensing even further, impossibly so. Soon he’s going to snap. As much as Neil would love to see Lovejoy’s wrist broken, Andrew would pay dearly for that. “Let go, Lovejoy.”

“The third-class are exceptionally sneaky, Nathaniel,” Stuart intervenes. Neil’s fists clench and he wonders how Stuart’s big nose would look broken. “Let him be searched. Prove it.”

There’s a pressure on his lower back. He recognises Andrew’s touch because it is gentle, reassuring. Let him. It’s easier, Andrew is saying silently. He wants to get Nicky and Aaron to safety even though he has to endure unwarranted hands sweeping all over his body. Neil is hit with a fierce wave of awe for Andrew which almost brings tears to his eyes.

They pat Andrew down briefly, not at all thoroughly enough to find something. But Lovejoy goes straight for his left pocket. Almost like he knew something was in there.  
When he pulls out that god-awful diamond necklace, Neil feels the breath knocked out of him.

He remembers how Stuart had given that to him to give to Lola. To Lola, it’s a symbol of the money she’s marrying into. To Stuart, it’s a symbol of Nathan Wesninski’s pardon.

To Neil, it’s meaningless. It’s an expensive diamond which he hates the sight of and would be content if it was thrown into the ocean and never again emerged.

Lola’s shocked gasp is like a knife slicing through the air. Stuart says, “I told you,” just as Lovejoy goes, “A-ha!” with a smug smile.

At that moment, Neil hates every single one of them more than he’s ever done before. They ruined his life before he met Andrew. Now they’re storming in, trying to rip apart Neil’s newfound happiness.

Andrew never stole that necklace. It’s impossible. Lola wears it every day and sleeps with it well guarded in her dresser every night. He isn’t stupid and he knows by Andrew’s sharp eyes that he’s pieced together the puzzle as well.

“He didn’t,” Neil snaps. “You’re just delusional.”

“That’s no way to talk, Nathaniel,” chides Stuart. He goes to reach for Andrew but Neil puts an arm out to stop him.

“You have it back now.”

“He needs to be punished.”

“He didn’t do anything.”

“Nathaniel,” Lola says silkily, “please come back.”

Andrew’s shoulders are tense and his eyes are dark. Neil is hit with the urge to fight every single person who ever hurt him. He shoves Stuart back and repeats, “He didn’t do anything.”

“Take him,” Stuart orders.

Neil gets shoved around and out of the way. Nicky tries to intervene but one of the men in a suit strikes him on the cheek, sending him to the floor. Aaron crouches beside him and Andrew struggles more, but five men are too many, especially when they’ve got Andrew in a position he can’t get out of.

“No, no, don’t - don’t!” Neil says, struggling against Stuart, who is blocking Neil from getting close to the struggle.

“Neil,” Andrew says. “Protect them.”

That’s all Andrew says before he’s being forced away. Neil nods tightly and locks eyes with him. I’ll come back for you, Neil promises himself, before turning back to Nicky and Aaron.

Andrew has trusted Neil with the two people that he holds in higher regard than himself. Neil isn’t going to let him down. He’s going to get Nicky and Aaron to safety and then he’s going to go down and save Andrew, even if it means exchanging himself.

Lola hangs back from the rest of the group. She sidles up to Neil with an evil glint in her eye, all show of tears gone now. “You can’t stay with them. You have to come back.”

Neil looks at her with all of the pent-up resentment from the past few months. He thinks about her fingers snaking up his back; her promises that she’s going to cherish him; all of the lies and hostility directed towards him. He glares and says, “I don’t need you.”

“I need you. You’re going to be my husband, darling, and you can’t do that whilst you’re being forced into this by him. He’s hurting you. You don’t want this.”

“Forced?” Neil says. He feels a laugh bubble up into his throat. “You forced me. You hurt me.”

“Don’t say such silly things,” she warns. “You know about this man. His dirty past. His dirty lifestyle.” She casts an annoyed look at Aaron and Nicky, who are hovering behind Neil. “What are you going to do, Nathaniel? Run off with him? With them?”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Your father can.”

At the mention of Nathan, Neil feels himself freeze.

Noticing she’s struck a chord, Lola tacks on, “That’s right, Nathaniel, your father will find you. There’s no hiding.”

Somewhere deep within him, he knows Lola is right. Nathan Wesninski will find him. How could he be so stupid? Running off with Andrew puts them all in danger, Aaron and Nicky included.

But then Neil thinks of Andrew, being forced below deck by Stuart’s men, and a spark of hope goes through him so fiercely that it almost hurts. He won’t give up. Not now. For Andrew’s sake.

“Goodbye, Lola,” Neil says sharply. “I hope you get what you deserve.”

Just like that, Neil turns and ushers Aaron and Nicky away, leaving Lola behind, pale-faced and alone.  


* * *

“Nathaniel!” Allison calls, relief colouring her voice. She wraps her fingers around his wrist and tugs him close, safe. “You have to get on a lifeboat. They’ll take you. You’re first-class. We can -”

“No,” he interjects, an ache in his chest at the thought of leaving Andrew behind as the ship rapidly sinks. “No, Allison, I need your help.”

“Well, of course. What is it?”

“There are two third-class boys who I need to keep safe,” Neil explains. At ‘third-class’, Allison’s eyebrows disappear underneath her fringe. “I need you to take them with you. Pretend they’re important to you or something. I can’t -”

A warm hand lands on his bicep and stops him mid-sentence. It’s the tall woman who Allison boarded the ship with, Renee Walker. Underneath the rim of her hat, her eyes are understanding.

“They can come with us, Nathaniel,” Renee reassures. “Where are they now?”

Relief settles into his skin and Neil exhales. He looks back to the crowd and spots a panic-stricken Nicky and Aaron, who are looking around as if they expect to see Andrew reappear.

“Thank you,” he says quickly. “Just - wait here. I’ll be quick.”

He hurries back to Aaron and Nicky. He says, “You can go on the next lifeboat. Those two will take you.”  
Aaron looks between the lifeboats and Neil like he’s being tricked. His skin is a horrible shade of pale. “What? Go where? Andrew - he’s - ”

“I’ll get Andrew,” Neil reassures, trying to keep calm despite the panic rising in the back of his throat. He feels like he’s about to be sick. Andrew is being shoved around below deck, at the mercy of being touched and handcuffed. “I’ll go and find him. Explain that it was a mistake. Just - he needs you to be safe.”

Renee greets Aaron and Nicky with no regard for their worn clothing. She holds out a hand to greet Nicky, which he looks at hesitantly before he takes it. He looks beyond bewildered when she doesn’t let go.

Allison doesn’t bother to smile at Aaron but she still loops her arm through his like she’s known him all her life.

“What’s happening?” Nicky asks again, eyes flicking between Renee and Allison.

“You’re going on the lifeboat,” Neil explains, trying to squash down the swelling panic. There is no room on a lifeboat for Andrew and Neil, too. They’ll be here until the inevitable sinking of the ship. The lifeboats will all be gone.

“Why are we going with them? What about you?” Nicky asks, whipping his head around. “What about Andrew?”

“He can’t stay here,” Aaron growls, trying to tug away from Allison. She doesn’t let him get far, intertwining her fingers with his so they’re touching at all times.

“We can’t leave him,” Nicky agrees. There are tears welling in his eyes. “He’s family.”

“He’ll find you. I promise.”

A pang of sorrow goes through Neil. It’s a lie. Staying on the boat is inevitable death. The water is icy cold and there’s absolutely no hope of the ship staying afloat. Water is cascading in wildly, sweeping through the lower decks and wiping out anybody in the way. Andrew is probably waist deep in the water now. He has to get down there.

“Go in the lifeboat,” Neil says. His voice is acidic, washing away any other arguments effectively. “Stay with the first-classers and don’t draw attention to yourselves. You’re going to survive.”

That’s all he says. He squeezes Allison’s shoulder in thanks before sprinting off to the lower decks, anger coursing through his veins at the reminder that Andrew had been set up, is suffering for something which isn’t his fault. He’s probably panic-ridden because there are strangers holding him down, overpowering him, making him look weak.

Neil swallows down the hysteria in his chest and looks around. Where would Andrew have been taken?

When he spots an attendant calmly filing the first-classers out of their rooms, Neil sprints up to him and says, “Where would they take a person under arrest?”

The attendant blinks. “Mr Hartford? You must get on a lifeboat immedia -”

“No, no, I need to find someone. I have to.”

“Someone under arrest?” The man furrows his eyebrows.

“Just tell me.”

“But Sir -”

“Tell me,” Neil growls, almost animalistically, “where to go.”

With a concerned look, the man says, “Take the elevator to the bottom of the stairs. Go to the right, then the left. Down long corridor and you’ll reach crew deck.”

Neil listens, nodding frantically. The second the man has finished his instructions, Neil runs faster than he's ever run before, jumping in the elevator and saying, “Take me to the very bottom.”

* * *

That he’s going to drown.

“I’ve been asked to give you this small token of appreciation from Miss Lola,” says Lovejoy. He then proceeds to make sure Andrew’s hands are secure and jams his elbow into Andrew’s stomach - hard. Andrew doubles over and coughs a few times, the wind knocked from him.

As he straightens up slowly, Lovejoy hits him again. His elbow is hard and fast and unforgiving as it surely leaves bruises behind.

“That one was from me,” Lovejoy explains. He pockets the key of the handcuffs with a smug smile and watches Andrew gasp for breath.

As Lovejoy turns to leave, his shoes splash a little. The floor is wet. The water is barely a centimetre deep at the moment, but Andrew knows it’s going to rise until it’s way above his head. The whole ship will be submerged.

“Scared of water, are you, boy?” asks Lovejoy. Andrew wonders how it would feel to carve that sneer off of his face. “You should have thought about that before you stole a necklace worth millions.”

Lovejoy knows Andrew didn’t steal the necklace. But he doesn’t care about what’s right. All that Lovejoy cares about is making Stuart Hartford happy and climbing on a lifeboat.

With that, Lovejoy turns around and leaves, taking the handcuff key with him.

Andrew closes his eyes and thinks about Aaron and Nicky. Did Neil manage to get them safe? Is Neil safe? They might all be on a lifeboat right now if Neil had taken Nicky and Aaron along with him. Although Andrew had gotten a horrible feeling that the determined look in Neil’s eyes as Andrew had been dragged away meant something other than goodbye.

He can’t come here. It’s too dangerous and he has no idea where Andrew is. He’ll end up drowning as well.

After five minutes, the water is at Andrew’s ankle.

He thinks about Neil and his soft, eager lips right before the iceberg hit. Surely that’s some twisted symbol of how Andrew’s life has gone so far - something good comes along, but something tears it to pieces. His first kiss with Neil had been immediately followed by the inevitable future of drowning in icy waters.

Ten minutes, mid-calf.

He thinks about Aaron and his terrified expression. Nicky and his promise to Erik - “I’ll come and see you sometime when we get back from America -” which might not ever be fulfilled if Neil failed to get Nicky and Aaron to safety.

After twenty minutes, his waist is in the water and he can see water pouring in from the door. He realises that his chest is seizing up with panic and his breaths are increasingly choppy. Maybe it’s the freezing temperature of the water. Maybe it’s the realisation that his oxygen is limited and there’s no way he’s going to be able to escape the rising water and -

Maybe he’s been hallucinating Neil this whole time. Maybe this isn’t real. Maybe Neil is a side effect of the shock of the cold water. Nothing but a figment of his imagination.

“Andrew!”

Andrew opens his eyes and sees Neil, wet-haired and panicked, wading towards him with relief on his face. The relief is promptly replaced with horror as he looks at the handcuffs which contain Andrew to the corner.

“Are Aaron and Nicky safe?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah, they’re on a boat now with Allison and Renee.”

“And why aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” Neil snaps. “I’m not leaving you. Where’s the key? Did they leave it behind?”

“No,” Andrew growls, his voice slightly choked from the sight of Neil, real and here. “Lovejoy took it.”

Neil’s eyes go wide and then narrow. “There has to be a copy. There always is. I’ll - what colour was it?”

“Silver.”

He swings open a key cabinet and scans through them. Desperately, he says, “These are all brass. There’ll be a spare. There’ll be - something. I’ll break them with my hands. I -”

“Neil,” Andrew says calmly. Neil’s eyes snap to his, wild and wet. “It will be fine.”

“No, no, I - I am not leaving without you.”

“You have to.”

“Shut up,” Neil says again, “don’t - don’t say that. You can’t say that. I’ll go and get some help.”

“Nobody will help.” A third-class prisoner, Andrew’s eyes add. “Just go. There will be a lifeboat for you. Tell them you’re a Hartford.”

“I’m not,” Neil whispers brokenly. He’s crying a little, but he blinks away his tears angrily. “I’m not a Hartford. I won’t live - not without you.”

“Don’t say stupid things,” Andrew snaps. “Go away.”

Andrew’s resistance only serves to make Neil’s spine straighten further. “I’m going to get some help. I’ll be back. I promise. I promise.”

Neil wades away, battling against the water which is nearly up to Andrew’s waist. A few more minutes and it will be.

He hears Neil’s hysterical shouts of, “Is anyone down here? Can anybody help?” until he’s too far away to hear.

Andrew leans his head against the pipe and thinks at least he kept his promise to Aaron and Nicky. They’re safe. They’re okay.

He can die knowing that.

* * *

“Sir, sir,” Neil says, catching the crew member by his elbow, “I need your help. There’s a man - he’s trapped in the -”

“No time,” the crew member says, shoving a life jacket at him. “No time!”

“No, wait -”

“This level is filled with water! Sir, get in the elevator, I’ll take you to a lifeboat.”

“No, you don’t understand!”

But the man is in too much of a state, trying to pull Neil into the elevator. He’s panicked and not listening to reason. The water in up to Neil’s waist and slowly rising. In the room Andrew is in, it’s probably passing his chest by now.

“Get in the elevator, Sir, or to hell with you!”

In a surge of panic and desperation, Neil does the only thing he can think of as reasonable. He grabs the man by his life jacket and tugs him down closer, shaking him roughly.

“Listen! My friend - he’s locked in handcuffs in the arrest room! I need your help!”

“I won’t go back,” he wails, his voice hysteric, “I won’t! Submerged, the unsinkable ship, sinking!”

“What will break the handcuffs?”

“The key, sir, now let me -”

There’s a huge creak and shudder. The lights flicker off. The power can’t have gone out - how is he going to find Andrew? How will they find their way out? Neil feels his chest constrict and he’s several seconds away from spiralling into a panic attack.

The man lets out an unholy shriek and starts clawing his way through the water and into the elevator.

Thankfully, after five awful seconds, the lights unsteadily come back to life. They’re weaker than before.

The man goes up in the elevator, water gushing out as he travels up and leaves Neil alone, waist deep and freezing.

He frantically wades through another corridor. He shouts, “Someone help!” eight times, but nobody is down here. It’s a ghost town. The corridors where people used to walk through and rooms where people used to sleep - now empty. Desolate.

Then he spots it - big, bold letters: only use in case of an emergency.

An axe.

Neil nearly melts into a puddle of liquefied relief but manages to stay standing. He battles against the thick water at his waist and smashes the glass with his fist, feeling his skin split but paying it absolutely no mind. Andrew will be safe. Andrew will be okay.

The axe is small and not too sharp, but the blade will do to break the chain on the handcuffs. He goes back the way he came, praying he doesn’t get lost and that the water hasn’t gone above Andrew’s head yet.

The water is just reaching Andrew’s waist as Neil storms into the room. He feels dizzy with relief and sees Andrew’s internal panic from the clouded storm of his eyes. He’s trapped in a room on a sinking ship. Nobody would be perfectly collected.

“Andrew,” Neil says breathlessly, dripping wet and brandishing an axe. He doesn’t think he imagines the spark of relief in Andrew’s eyes, the slight disbelief that Neil actually came back.

“Set your hands as far apart as they’ll go,” Neil orders. “I’m going to bring the axe down and it’s going to cut the chain.”

There’s a tense moment where Neil imagines missing; the blood which would spread through the water; the agonised clench of Andrew’s expression. But all that panic is shoved away by a huge burst of adrenaline. Neil brings the axe down with a clang - Andrew closes his eyes - then suddenly, Andrew’s hands are free, two cuffs like bracelets around his wrists.

There’s a moment where they just look at each other. Then Neil is breathing out, striding forwards and standing close to Andrew without touching him.

“I told you I’d come back.”

“Shut up.” Andrew takes Neil’s face in his hands and kisses him soundly on the mouth, firmer than necessary but reassuring nonetheless. Then he is pushing him away and saying, “We need to get off this level. Now.”

Neil nods, wishing that they had the time to kiss properly, for real. Wishing that their time wasn’t running out.

“Maybe there’s a lifeboat left,” insists Neil, although he knows now they’ve most likely all gone. “Maybe - they’ll see I’m first-class and -”

Andrew hushes him with a firm grip on his arm. He doesn’t offer any reassurances.

* * *

He pushes his way forwards, Neil close on his tail. He reaches the front of the crowd, where the metal gates are holding them all back like animals.

“Open the gate,” Andrew says. Neil, Matt and Dan are conversing in low voices behind him. He catches a few odd words - ‘force’, ‘heavy’, ‘break’ - but it’s too loud to hear everything.

“I’m sorry, I -”

“Open it!” a louder voice comes from behind him. Neil sounds dangerous. “Open the gate, Jackson.”

Andrew isn’t sure how Neil knows his name. Perks of being upper-class, he supposes.

“Mr Hartford, I can’t open the gate yet. Not until all the boats have gone.”

“What? So all the first-classers can survive? What about me? I got trapped down here and now I’m going to die? You know my Uncle Stuart wouldn’t be pleased.” Neil’s voice is silky and he’s talking far too much. Andrew figures out mid-sentence that Neil is buying time. Sure enough, when he looks around, Matt and a few other men have disappeared. The puzzle strings together. They’re going to get something heavy enough to break the gate whilst the steward is distracted. “If you get off of the ship alive, Jackson, you’re going to have a price to pay.”

“Mr Hartford, I’m sorry, but the gate -”

“Open it.”

“The boats will be swarmed.”

“There are women and children down here!”

Just as Jackson goes to open his mouth, there’s a roar of, “MOVE!” and then Matt Boyd appears once again, this time with a wooden piece of furniture and several other men. People skitter to the sides and then they are charging. With a clang, the gate weakens. Andrew sees the metal bend. There’s another shout - “Again!” - and a countdown from three.     With the next hit, the gate half collapses. One more hit -

“You can’t go out there!” the man behind the gate is screeching, but he is silenced by a mass of bodies shoving him aside as the crowd pours out of the doorway.

Andrew feels a tight hand grip his wrist and knows automatically that it’s Neil. His hands are shaking from the amount of unwarranted physical contact but Andrew knows that here, in this situation, it’s unavoidable. He can deal with it.

The deck is havoc. Screaming, crying, yelling. There’s a gunshot and more screams.

“Women and children only! Women and children only!” pierces through the air. Andrew watches the lifeboats tumble into the water, throwing several people overboard. People jump from the decks onto a boat, only to be pushed off by the people inside.

“The boats,” Neil pants. “They’re all gone.”

“There’s one,” Andrew disagrees, eyes scanning the deck.

One lifeboat being filled up a few metres away from the others, containing the designers of the ships and a few more important upper-class women. Lola and Stuart left hours ago, along with Nicky and Aaron. The designers had obviously remained behind to see if there was anything that could be done. Now, they’ve realised that the Titanic is a lost cause.

The unsinkable ship, sinking. How ironic.

“Go quickly,” Andrew says., pointing to the lowering boat. “Go. You can make it. They’ll let you in.”

“Are you stupid? They won’t!”

“Of course they will,” he growls. “Your disobedience is a minor setback. Go. Tell them you’re a Hartford. Apologise. Tell them you realised your mistake -”

“A mistake?” Neil asks, voice borderline hysteric. “You’re - you can’t be serious. This was never a mistake, Andrew.”

“Shut up. Go in the boat.”

“I’d rather die here, with you,” Neil says, his hand tightening on Andrew’s arm unconsciously, “than living with my father.”

“Neil -”

“No.” The word sends spikes up Andrew’s spine.

“I’m not asking.”

“But you always do,” Neil says quietly, barely heard over the roar of fear surrounding them. “And now, it’s a no. I’m staying.”

How stupid can someone be? Andrew feels his temper crackle in his chest, about to flare up. He might just throw Neil in that boat himself. “To drown.”

“Like I said,” Neil says, so defiant, even when he’s facing death, “I’m staying.”

There’s a huge shudder. The ship makes a noise which pierces the air. Andrew grips Neil’s arms like a lifeline and pulls him close enough to keep him safe.

Down in third-class, Andrew’s sketchbook floats pitifully. The drawing of the man and his daughter slowly fades away, ruined by water. Memories of Paris with Roland are smudged to the point of being unrecognisable. The drawing of Neil, relaxed and happy and beautiful -

He’ll never see that version of Neil again. They’re going to die here. Andrew has never been afraid of death, but it seems to have come at the one time he’s found something to live for.

“Andrew,” Neil says, his voice shaky. “You deserve to live.”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Neil whispers, leaning in and letting Andrew capture his lips in a kiss.

The taboo of two men kissing goes entirely unnoticed among the chaos. It’s chaste and altogether a thank you.

They only break apart when water begins to drag the ship sideways, sending Neil staggering.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the RMS Titanic begins to tilt.

* * *

Distantly, among the panic, Neil manages to remember this is where Andrew first pulled him back from the edge. Where Andrew had saved his life.

In more ways than one.

It’s clear Andrew remembers too, because his hand tightens where it is gripping Neil’s waist. It wasn’t that long ago, yet it seems like years ago that Neil was trapped and numb and would rather have died than exist for one more second.

People are praying. God most likely isn’t listening. They’re going to die.

People are still playing the violins, one last act before they get swept away.

“Hold on to me,” Andrew orders. “The ship will pull you down. Keep swimming. Don’t stop.”

Neil buries his head in Andrew’s shoulder, breathes in his scent and realises out of all the ways there is to die, in Andrew’s arms isn’t the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also shoutout to haley for the idea abt nicky and aaron going with Allison and renee. ily bitch

**Author's Note:**

> hey so if you liked it please leave me a comment :)
> 
> [ CHECK OUT THE ART! CREDS TO HI-RAETHIA ON TUMBLR ](https://hi-raethia.tumblr.com/post/177032387254/some-of-my-fav-scenes-from-minyardthingss)  
> [ 1 ](https://78.media.tumblr.com/cb23d555451cbb867c213cf3180e408d/tumblr_pdiowkEmpf1uqcvepo1_1280.png)  
> [ 2 ](https://78.media.tumblr.com/4eb6cd3d922b6dbfafc51e5d264eccb9/tumblr_pdiowkEmpf1uqcvepo2_1280.png)  
> [ 3 ](https://78.media.tumblr.com/4367485bfb538e3c98963a6a18abee28/tumblr_pdiowkEmpf1uqcvepo3_1280.png)  
> [ 4 ](https://78.media.tumblr.com/e3930daf3418217f6b902f7dc9e195cf/tumblr_pdiowkEmpf1uqcvepo4_1280.png)  
> [ 5 ](https://78.media.tumblr.com/5aca67d26b9ba45f018d359282df79bb/tumblr_pdiowkEmpf1uqcvepo5_1280.png)


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